


Of All the Bad Ideas

by socksock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in a Female Vessel, F/M, M/M, Multiple Castiels, Multiple Sams, Parallel Universes, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socksock/pseuds/socksock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got a rescue mission that turns into a road trip to Bizarro World.  Sam's got a craft project that turns into a guilt fest.  And Cas is probably up to something, but who really knows?</p><p>Featuring parallel universes, poor decision making, and angels with terrible nicknames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come on, man.” Dean gave Cas his most winning smile, which never worked because Cas' heart was made of exasperated stone. “We haven't seen you in weeks. Why don't we ever hang out anymore?”

“I don't have time to--”

“The last time we saw you was, what? When we found that magic ball thing you wanted, that shot all that lightning and made my hair look awesome.” He looked across the table to Sam for confirmation or correction on the latest heavenly weapon's unpronounceable name, but his brother was determinedly staying out of it, scanning his menu as if he didn't already know exactly what he'd order and hadn't known for the past five minutes.

Dean turned back to Cas. “This only calling when you want something habit could start to make a guy feel _used_.” He adjusted the collar of his shirt with a snap. “Dirty. You feel dirty, Sam?”

“Not really.”

“You only call when you want something from me as well,” Cas said.

“And you see! That's not right. I should make that up to you. Have lunch with us and then we can go gank this ghost together.”

Because who could turn down an offer like that?

Cas apparently, if the way his eyes slid over towards the exit was anything to go by.

“Ca'mawwn. It's not like one afternoon off will kill you.” He nudged Cas' shoulder, and Cas swayed a few inches under the push before bobbing back upright.

“In the span of an afternoon, Raphael could kill hundreds.”

“Dude, you can't go 24/7 forever. There's gotta be _some_ down time up there.” He turned to inspect the off brand Tabasco offering in the condiments basket. He didn't recognize the label. Maybe some kinda local thing? Curious, he unscrewed the cap, shook a few drops onto the inside of his wrist, and slurped it off to taste it. Too hot for its own good and with a residual flavor of...mangoes? Huh. He narrowed his eyes down at the bottle.

When he looked back up at Cas, the angel was pinning him with a withering look. Withering. Like something in his gut was shriveling up and dying. Or maybe that was the hot sauce. He hadn't come to a decision yet on whether or not he liked it.

“Down time,” Cas repeated. “Yes. I can take advantage of the daily two hour span when the entirety of Raphael's forces take their communal nap.”

He didn't care for Cas' newly developed, awkward sarcasm, but the guy did have a point.

Thankfully, the waitress had some kind of sixth sense for disrupting conversations that had gone off the rails and appeared with their coffees. Cas reached past Dean to slide the bowl of creamer cartons to his side of the table, ignoring the waitress in favor of carefully peeling open a creamer and continuing to be all pissy. “You refuse to comprehend how grim the situation is. This is not a human war. The enemy is more powerful than you can imagine. They do not sleep, and they can fold the fabric of time and space to suit their purposes.”

This probably sounded crazy to the waitress, but Sam distracted her with shining puppy eyes and ordered an egg white Southwest omelet, chicken fried steak with onion rings, and a half order of curly fries. He had that apologetic smile, the one that assured her that he was ignoring the bickering on the other side of the table and she really ought to as well. The smile that said, “We're completely normal, they're just talking about a TV show or something, and I promise we're good tippers.”

Cas peeled open another creamer and poured it into his coffee.

“Of course I don't get it,” Dean said. “You'll break out in hives if you come right out and explain anything.”

Cas rolled his eyes and reached for another creamer. Dean lifted his cup and took a scalding gulp, because when you drank black coffee, you could do so immediately without having to go through this fussy dance Sam and Cas liked doing.

Hold up.  “Hey, can't you can fold time and space too?”

“Yes.”

“Great! So you can spend the afternoon with us, and then use your super powers to time warp back and do whatever important war effort stuff you were gonna do.” He grinned and clanked his mug on the table, because that settled it.

Still undecided on whether or not he liked the Tabasco, he went for a second shot.

Cas closed his eyes and breathed purposefully through his nose, his jaw clenched unreasonably tight. He looked like he was counting to ten, which tickled Dean as much as Sam's “Did you seriously shave off half my eyebrow while I was sleeping?” face. Cas didn't need to _breathe_ , much less calming-centering-anger-management breaths. It was such a human thing, something he must have picked up on earth, even though Dean had no clue from who. (Sam always glared while he did the jaw-clench-about-to-say-something-he'll-regret pause.)

Dean watched, his tongue dragging over the hot sauce stinging the inside of his wrist. A year ago, Cas would have thrown him through a wall by now. He would have said, “I'm leaving,” and vanished. Or said nothing at all and vanished. They wouldn't be having this conversation. Despite Cas' recent absence, this bickering was progress.

Arguing about how you don't have time for coffee, while sitting in a diner, pouring creamer after creamer into a mug, kind of proved Dean's point for him. Clearly, Cas wanted to be there. He had time, heaven blew, and greasy dinners were awesome.

Cas poured creamer number five, and the coffee (not that it really counted as coffee anymore seeing as it was now 90% milk and the color of nougat) was about to overflow down the sides of his mug. He reached for a sixth, and Dean snatched it out of his hand, dropped it back in the creamer bowl with its friends, and slid the whole thing back towards the condiments basket. Without comment, Cas finally turned his attention to actually drinking.

His mug made it half way to his mouth before his back stiffened and his head snapped around. Dean blinked and, with the deep beat of wings, a woman—all bright blue raincoat over business attire, dark hair, and piercing eyes—stood in front of their table. Cas stared back, his eyebrows raising and lips parting in surprise or awe.

Then the head tilt.

Then the squint.

She let him go through the whole sequence before speaking, her voice like a river, something powerful and dangerous.

“I need your help.”

A shiver swept over Dean's skin, and he smothered the reaction with a dense layer of irritation. He'd just won his argument and whoever this chick was was not going to drag Cas back to heaven for a war council or for shepherding clueless angels. Bros before hoes, man. Eatings before meetings. Food before...stupid heaven crap. He glared and made his voice as intimidating as possible. “We're in the middle of something.”

It took a moment for her eyes to drag away from Cas and focus on Dean, at which point he kinda wished he hadn't said anything.

“Dean.” Like a freaking laser in his brain. Damn. A blink, and her head swiveled, and Dean could breathe again. “Sam. May I join you?” She stared at Sam until he shifted uncomfortably.

“Sam,” Cas said, “please make room for her to sit.”

“What? Oh yeah. Here.” He shuffled down the booth, cramming all the crap (a coat and a bag and a...second coat?) against the wall, and gave the angel way more space than her small vessel needed. She sat primly, touching the vinyl seat as little as possible, her back straight, her hands folded on the table in front of her. She and Cas stared at each other again, holding their own creepy telepathic conversation.

And that shit needed to be broken up, because Cas looked more interested in this than he had about anything in months, and that made Dean bristly and in dire need of onion rings. "Alright, you're sitting down, now who are you?"

The interruption didn't work because they kept staring, surely blocking Dean out of more than half the conversation, even as Cas answered. “She's a friend.” He sounded a bit like he was puzzling it out as he spoke, not sure who she was or what label to use until they rolled off his tongue.

“Is this about the war?” Sam asked, his voice hushed and excited. He'd twisted in his seat with his shoulders curled, like he was ready to pounce on new information.

Geeze, not him too.

For everyone's safety and as the constant voice of reason in their group (true story), Dean would remain skeptical and refuse to be taken in by any of this.

He gestured at Cas. “Yeah. You part of the Foot Clan here?"

She broke away from her stare down to raise her eyebrows at him. She was cute. Still an angel and probably awful. But cute. "I understand that reference,” she said. “The Foot Clan battle the mutated turtles, and Raphael is the turtle in the red mask.” Her eyes skirted away, and she nodded, approving of the metaphor or assuring herself that she'd caught it correctly.

Dean blinked at her, then sat back in his seat, changing his assessment from cute to almost hot. "Wow."

Sam's whole face shifted, flattening out, and he leaned in even further. "You understood a ninja turtle reference?"

"I watched the first film during movie night," she said.

And...what?

“Movie night?” Sam asked.

"Movie night!" Dean repeated, letting approval that bordered on glee into his tone.

He needed to know all about this immediately. Since when did angels do movie night? Did some dead projectionist have a drive-in heaven that they all visited? Did they all still wear their suits when they went? Who picked the movies? And why the hell wasn't Cas going to these?

“No down time, my ass.”

Cas clearly didn't understand that hearing all about this mysterious movie night was infinitely more important than whatever else they had to talk about and got them back on track. "She fights against Raphael, if that's what you mean. She's on my side."

And the eye contact was back, Cas and some goofy angel locked together like they were the only two beings in existence. "Always."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Alright. Alright. Break it up. You got a name, sunshine?"

She considered. "You may continue to call me that, if you want, as I'm sure it's as good as any other nickname you'll come up with."

"What? _Sunshine_?" Sam asked. “Seriously?”

She tilted her head and stared off into space. "It's pleasant."

Sam looked like he thought Sunshine might be having some sort of angel crazy time, and he had a severe need to _do something_ about it. He turned to Dean with his patented “Well? What are we going to do about this? I'm a sad, scared sasquatch” look. Cas narrowed his eyes, clearly disapproving of anyone accepting one of Dean's nicknames without protest, and Dean found himself grinning. "Fantastic!"

Cas' suspicious look turned on him, but their waitress returned, with her impeccable timing, their plates balanced along one arm, and a fresh mug and a carafe in her free hand. She smiled at Sunshine. “How you doin', Sugar? What can I get ya'?”

“I don't—“

“She'll have a coffee,” Dean said, helping Sam shift the plates around. Dean passed Sam the pepper and Sam shifted the plate of curly fries in front of the angels so they could pick them apart, glare at them, and then diagnose the half-dozen spices used for flavoring. Over their flurry of activity, their practiced dance of hands and plates, the Winchesters beamed at their waitress, who poured Sunshine her coffee and topped off Dean's cup with a wink before spinning away.

Reaching past Dean again, Cas grabbed the creamer bowl, and moved it around the curly fries to Sunshine's side of the table. “Why are you here?” Cas asked. Despite the grumpy question, his voice was kind.

“I need your help,” she repeated. She plucked up a creamer and peeled it open, pouring it gently into her coffee as she spoke. “Raphael has taken the boys hostage. I need to rescue them.”

A shadow passed over Cas' face.

“The boys?” Sam asked, pausing with his fork full of omelet almost to his mouth.

“The humans I watch over.”

Huh.  Now, it wasn't every day they heard about an angel that gave a crap about humans, much less specific humans. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

“You some kind of guardian angel?”

“No,” Cas and Sunshine said together.

Sam scrunched up his forehead. “Why would Raphael kidnap your—your humans? What's special about them?”

Angel vessels probably. Or they weren't actually human. Maybe fallen angels who didn't remember who they were. Or psychic kids that the angels would want to destroy or use as weapons and want to control. There had to be a reason some random kids had their own guardian.

Sunshine scrunched up her face and spoke as if it was difficult for her to admit. “Raphael knows I'm fond of them. He took them to bind my hands. If I move against him,” she shrugged, and it looked like a completely foreign gesture on her, stiff and purposeful, “they die. They're my weakness, and it was only a matter of time before he came for them.”

Cas's hand tightened on his coffee mug. He looked ready to punch something. “Of course I'll help you.”

“Thank you, Castiel.” Then they were staring at each other again, and didn't notice the look Dean traded with Sam to make sure they were on the same page. Agreement that rescuing human hostages needed to be done? Yep. Suspicion that this story seemed a little too aligned with shit Cas would drop everything for? Yep. Probably a trap? Yep. Understanding that they were going to go anyhow, because that's just what they did? Yahtzee!

To stare at Cas, Sunshine had paused before pouring creamer number four. Dean jerked his head at it. Sam threw him a face but lifted the creamer bowl away from her and asked, “So what can we do?”

“Nothing,” Cas said.

Sunshine frowned over the rim of her mug, sounding perplexed. “We need their help.”

“It's not their concern.”

“We can't get into the complex unless someone takes down the wards.”

Sam frowned. “Why would angels ward someplace against themselves?”

“Raphael left them in the care of humans. The devout. I can't get to them, and I suspect they think I wouldn't harm their captors.”

“Would you?” Sam asked.

She turned her look on him, but didn't answer. Her eyes were storms and ocean swells. Sam swallowed.

“It's not their fight,” Cas said.

“No,” Dean said, letting out a huff of breath and going back to his steak, “but we're going anyway.”

“Dean.”

“Dude. No. Look, this is our kind of gig. Screwing up angel plans. Helping people. You need us and we're coming.” He took a bite, locked eyes with Cas, and chewed, trying to get the point across that—whatever this thing was—he shouldn't go in without backup.

Cas looked pained. He pressed his lips into a tight line, holding back a brand new bickering session. He slumped in defeat, his fingers drumming against his mug. “You're not going to enjoy this. It's a bad idea.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Probably. So we'll just finish up here, get the ghost, and hit the road.”

Sam groaned. “The ghost still? Seriously, Dean?”

“It's a problem.”

“Not really.”

“The ghost has yet to hurt anyone,” Cas agreed.

“Not _yet_.”

Sunshine held a curly fry between her fingers, twisting it like she could uncurl it. Her eyes darted back and forth between Dean and Cas. For a second, Dean thought she'd comment on something that would make Dean irritable. Instead, she asked, “Ghost?”

Cas sighed. “They are on a standard salt and burn. We should leave them to it.”

“Hell no. You're not getting out of this.”

“Where is this ghost?” Sunshine asked.

Dean pointed with his fork in the general direction. “Up the road at an old bed and breakfast. He rises up out of the lake and looks in people's windows while they're sleeping.”

“Do you know the identity of this ghost?”

“Not yet. We were—“

She popped the curly fry in her mouth and vanished.

Dean blinked. “Huh.”

“I guess you were boring her,” Sam said.

“Why am I the only one who cares about this ghost?”

“Trust me, we have no idea why you care about this ghost.”

“You cannot come with us,” Cas said. “She has plans beyond a simple rescue mission.”

“Think we're just gonna let you go off on your own with Roger Ebert?”

“I don't know who that is, but if you come, you'll draw Raphael's attention, and he will capture you just as he did _Sunshine's-_ -” he said the name like it tasted bitter, “--friends.”  The last word was bitter too.

“Like he doesn't already know how awesome we are.”

“Look Cas,” Sam said, “we know the consequences. We know that she's probably up to something, because everybody is always up to something. But we'll risk it. We want to help.”

“You do not know the consequences,” Cas grumbled. “You don't—“

Sunshine popped back into place, startling Sam, who'd leaned a bit too far into her space while she was gone.

“The spirit's name is Alexander Talbot. He died in a canoe accident in 1998.”

“Did you...just go talk to him?”

She blinked slowly. “You said it was important.” She reached for another fry, plucking it between thumb and forefinger.

Dean found himself grinning again. “Finally. Someone understands.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Do you know where his bones are?”

She closed her eyes and thought about it really hard.

“His body was never recovered,” Cas said, and they looked to see his eyes closed as well.

“So he's at the bottom of the lake?” Dean asked. “How the hell are we supposed to—”

Cas disappeared.

“—Sonuvabitch.” Dean tossed his fork onto his now empty plate with a rattling clank. “They're gonna do this whole thing without us.”

Sam shrugged. “Beats renting scuba equipment to stop a ghost that's _not bothering anyone_.”

“Bitch.”

Sunshine peeled apart two fries that had stuck together, holding one up to the light to inspect it, letting it dangle. “This is why Castiel doesn't accompany you on salt and burns,” she explained. “They're trivial with his assistance and they leave you feeling unfulfilled and inferior.”

“Inferior?”

“You should ask his assistance to stop a minor deity or a horde of some kind,” she suggested. “He would also enjoy a sea monster.”

“There are sea monsters?”

“Yes.” She twisted her gaze from her fry to Dean, and said in all seriousness, “If you want to give him a challenge, he'd also have difficulty with air guitar. And self-serve frozen yogurt. And...twitter? Is that the name?”

Dean stared at her. Sam nodded, his jaw slack.

She nodded back. “It's confusing. He'll do it incorrectly if he hasn't already made the attempt. It should amuse you.”

Dean swallowed, stuck on _air guitar_. “Well, that's all...good to know.”

She smiled and ate another fry.

Cas blinked back into the booth, his wet hair plastered to his head and his clothes dripping with lake water. Then Dean blinked and he was dry again, although the smell of lake had already clung to the booth. “I've taken care of the ghost.”

“Did you get the bones out of the lake before you burned them, or did you just set them on fire underwater?”

Cas looked puzzled. “I assumed the method of their destruction was up to me.”

“I'm just curious, Cas.”

“Oh.” He reached for his coffee again. “Yeah, I just burned them where they were.”

“And that worked?”

Cas took a drink and looked at him with raised eyebrows over the rim of his coffee.

“Right. Stupid question. Of course it worked.”

“Can we leave now?” Sunshine asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said as Cas said, “They're staying.”

Cas glared and then hunched in on himself, his huge trench coat shoulders up around his ears. Dean ignored him, pulling his wallet from his back pocket to dig out some bills.

“I helped you dispatch the ghost, and I had lunch with you, as you wanted,” Cas said. “Now I'm leaving.”

“And we're leaving with you. Deal with it. We're done talking about it.” Dean tossed some bills on the table and grinned at Sunshine, who would take him along no matter what Cas had to say about it.

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, probably wishing the angels would leave without them just so he didn't have to put up with anymore bickering.


	2. Chapter 2

The Angel Express sucked way more than usual. For a split second, it felt like Sam had left all his internal organs back in the diner parking lot, leaving him a shell of flimsy bones and brittle skin, before everything slammed back into place with a lurch, buckling his knees and sending him heaving to the ground. Nausea rolled through him like a tidal wave, and—crap—he did not look forward to seeing that egg white omelet again.

He had no clue how his lunch stayed down, but it certainly wasn't through sheer force of personality, because he gave up as soon as his knees hit the dirt.

Some dozen or so heaves later, his hearing and vision cleared enough for him to recognize that the diner parking lot wasn't made of dry gravel and dust, so he must be somewhere new. He recognized Dean swearing weakly from somewhere behind him. He squeezed his eyes closed to cool them, before turning to his brother, who had stayed on his feet thanks only to Cas' presence at his elbow.

“Shit.” Dean pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, grabbing for Cas' sleeve and only sort of catching it as he stumbled. Cas was too busy looking completely unimpressed with Sunshine to offer any pity.

Sam fought back shivers even though he was sweating, and swallowed away the bile in his throat. He considered just collapsing and taking a nap, but instead he pushed himself to his feet and blinked away the spots that bloomed in front of his eyes.

Pissed off and defensive, Dean snapped, “You okay?”

“No,” Sam said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “What happened?”

“Freaking angels, man! Who taught you to drive?!”

It took Sunshine a second to realize he was talking to her, and then she just looked confused. “It wasn't that bad.”

“Not that bad? Not that—That was awful. What are you, new at this? It's like not all my bits made it.”

“It was a difficult transition. It's normal to feel some discomfort.”

“Some discomfort? You're the one fixing me if it turns out all my blood's running the wrong direction now.”

“Where are we?” Sam asked.

“Your circulatory system is fine. Your increase in blood pressure and heart rate are probably due to your over-excitement.”

Sam looked around for the first time, squinting against the sun to see rows of cars with dented trunks and rusted doors and missing wheels. Rolled down windows and raised hoods. Gaping holes from scavenged engine parts. It smelled of grease and metal, dust and the South Dakota wind.

The Singer salvage yard.

Sam's heart sank. Given his queasiness, it hurt way more than usual.

He turned to throw a panicked look at Dean, but Dean was still hiding his own stress with righteous indignation, getting in Sunshine's face as much as his wobbly legs and unfocused eyes would let him. In his place was Cas, looking straight at Sam with a pained look, like he wanted to reach out a comforting hand. The same way he'd steadied Dean. Sam looked away.

He was not ready for this.

He'd been putting it off for weeks. Bobby'd been weird. Distant and edgy. On the road, Sam had been ready to call him, all “you can't hide that something's wrong,” and “what can I do to help?” He'd guessed at reasons, but none of them really ate at him, none of them couldn't be fixed with some explaining and reassurance. It'd be okay.

But then the truth came out, and—and it was so much worse than anything. God, how do you make that better? What do you even say to that? Patricide? _Patricide_?! Just thinking it made him swell with something glowing like affection that, yes, of course that would count as patricide, and a split second later, that glow turned to ugly, tar-like bile because—God.

Bobby should have been _more_ weird, really. Should have thrown Sam out. Shouted something. Said something.

He was not ready for this.

“Bobby's?” he asked.

Dean exploded. “Bobby's?! Are you kidding me? All that to get to Bobby's? That's like a milk run.”

Leave it to Dean to completely miss connecting the dots that this was the last place Sam wanted to be. Leave it to Dean to fight with his new bestie within fifteen minutes.

“Okay. New rule,” Dean said. “Cas handles all teleportation from now on.”

“What are we doing here?” Sam asked.

“We need to make some preparations before our rescue attempt,” Sunshine said, slipping out of her discussion with Dean. “This place is relatively secure, has many of the materials we'll need, and you'll be able to rest here in comfort. We'll leave tomorrow morning.”

“So...” He scratched at the back of his head, squinted towards the house, and tried not to look as anxious as he felt. “One night?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He could do that. He could. He just had to suck it up. Be strong. Face his mistakes.

Maybe he could spend the evening in the salvage yard. Sleep in a car.

When he glanced back, Dean's irritation had fallen away, replaced with dawning realization and pity that almost matched Cas'. He didn't deserve pity. And now Dean was going to worry again.

Sunshine tilted her head and blinked at him, but other than that, she didn't ask for clarification.

“Um. Okay!” With the most terrible of all grin and bear it smiles, Dean straightened and clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “We gonna get our rescue on, or we gonna stand around, watching Sam puke?”

Sam glared, and Dean's smile grew more genuine.

“Jerk.”

Dean slapped him on the back, pinching into his shoulder to haul him towards the house, determination in every step. “Don't feel bad, Sammy. Remember the last time you threw up on the way to Bobby's? That was way more embarrassing.”

“I was twelve! Will you stop talking about it already?”

“Alright. We can talk about the time before that. Or the time before that. You puked a lot.”

“God, Dean.”

Dean pulled ahead, taking the steps two at a time with Sunshine at his elbow, while Sam hung back with Cas, who may have been trying for comforting and supporting by being a steady presence at his side. Sam decided it was too awkward to think about. They waited a good long time before Bobby answered their knock and shuffled around on the other side of the door, flicking locks and muttering “hold your damn horses.” All of Sam's muscles tensed at the sound of his voice.

Bobby cracked the door open to let his eyes sweep over them and raise his eyebrows at Dean. Sam wasn't sure if it was better to have his heart caught in his throat, or sinking to the pit of his stomach when Bobby gave no response at all to his presence.

"Brought a new friend?"

Dean shrugged. "Still up for debate."

Bobby rolled his eyes and snarked, "Well, by all means, bring everyone to my house. I'll bake cookies."

"Well, it is the friendliest place on earth. It's all the angels can talk about. Now they all want to hang out here. Feel the love."

“You're not funny.”

“Sure, I am.”

Bobby snorted and turned to Sunshine with an appraising eye. “This new one an angel?”

“Yes,” she said.

Bobby didn't look happy, but he swung the door wide, turned around, and walked off, not caring if they followed him into the house or not, but shouting over his shoulder. "So what? This visit defensive or offensive?"

Dean and the angels followed, disappearing into the dim house, and Sam lost track of the conversation as he fell behind, closing the door behind him and taking his time locking it. He caught up to them in the kitchen, but hovered in the doorway. The room was too small with too many people, especially with the walls closing in like they were. Bobby shifted something sizzling around in a skillet with a spatula, his back turned to everyone. "So you need something to break angel wards."

"Spray paint won't do it?" Dean asked. He leaned against the counter next to the refrigerator, watching the back of Bobby's head.

"If the wards were made in spray paint, that'd do it. But you're not dealing with slap dash demons who threw something together ten minutes ago. You're dealing with humans, who sound organized, and are working for angels. They're not the kinda folks to throw up some graffiti and feel satisfied. Gotta be prepared for something more impressive.” He turned to look over his shoulder, giving the angels a pointed look. “Or so I'm guessing."

"The wards in the prison they're using are thousands of years old. They're carved into stone and have several layers of magical protection." Strangely enough, this information came from Cas.

"There's a thousand year old, angel-proof prison?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Cas said. Like that was obvious.

"Those that built it abandoned it some time ago,” Sunshine said. “It hasn't been used for centuries."

"At least, not in any way that concerned heaven," Cas clarified, getting an eye roll from Dean.

"It seems Raphael has found a use for it again."

Cas sighed. "It will be a difficult rescue. Angels have never breached it."

Sam blinked. "Wait. What?" He only realized he'd spoken when everyone turned to him.

"No member of the host has ever set foot inside the prison," Cas repeated.

“But we're going to?” Dean asked.

Cas gave him a look like _Told you_.

“But for some perspective,” Sunshine said, “no one has made the attempt in a very long time. And on the last attempt they lacked the benefit of...modern destructive techniques. I have faith we'll succeed.”

Oh. “So...dynamite?” Sam asked. That sounded like a bad idea.

Dean's face lit up. “Awesome.” And just like that, he was back to mooning over Sunshine. Idiot. They were going to die.

Bobby snapped off the burner and turned from the stove with his skillet, scraping some of its contents onto a plate and revealing stir fried vegetables with strips of chicken. Weird. It smelled delicious, which was also bizarre. Completely unconcerned with their bone headed plan, he asked, “You boys want any?”

Dean eyed the vegetables, then said, “Nah. We just ate. And Sam's delicate stomach is acting up again.”

Sam nearly snapped something about how he had a stomach of steel and a gag reflex of iron, as demonstrated by the sheer volume of demon blood he'd drank, but that probably wasn't the best argument, and then Dean might brag about his own gag reflex, and Sam really didn't want to know.

“Jerk,” he said.

“Bitch,” Dean responded.

“Watch your language,” Bobby snapped. He gestured at Sunshine with his spatula. “There's a lady present.”

She gave him an indulgent half smile, then plucked a steaming snap pea from the skillet.

Bobby huffed and took a seat, his beard hiding most of his blush.

Just. What?

Sam hoped his confused look wasn't as obvious as Dean's. Cas didn't seem to be paying attention, his head cocked to one side and his eyes focused on the far wall like he was listening to something only he could hear. Maybe he was secretly on a conference call with heaven. Sunshine chewed the snap pea, all contemplation and building approval.

Bobby got a first bite nearly to his mouth before stopping and pinning Sam with a withering look. “You gonna get in here or you gonna lurk all day?”

He might throw up again. He might go do that just to have an excuse to hide in the bathroom. Instead, he shuffled from where he'd stood with his shoulder hidden by the door frame, stepping inside enough to lean against the other side of the wall, crossing his arms tight over his chest to make himself look smaller.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at him, then shook his head and went back to his meal. “I've got some tools that will cut through stone. You might not need to go blowing yourselves up and bringing the place down on top of you.”

“Suck all the fun out of it, why don't you?”

“There will be other obstacles as well,” Sunshine said. “Magical defenses you'll need to bring down.”

“We'll need scarabs,” Cas said.

“And indigo.”

“Coriander.”

“Poppies.”

“Red silk.”

They both vanished.

Sam blinked.

“Okay. That's even more unnerving when there's two of them,” Dean said, pushing off the counter to turn and stick his head in the fridge. “We need to make a beer run. And...what the hell is this?” He pulled back holding a resealable bag.

“It's flax seed. Idjit. You can't read labels now?”

“Why do you have flax seed?”

“For my diet,” Bobby grumbled, prodding at the stir fry on his plate.

“You're on a diet?”

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. “For my blood pressure?” He said it like this was something they were supposed to know about.

And the guilt just got worse. Sam hadn't considered that Bobby might have normal, civilian, human, old guy health problems. He hadn't even asked how he was doing. Too wrapped up in his own issues again.

“It was your angel's idea.”

Dean looked completely baffled. “Cas cares about your blood pressure?”

“ _Yes_.” Bobby held out the word like that was also obvious, and Dean sucked, and he was losing his patience.

Dean gave in immediately and squinted down at the bag. “What do you do with it?”

“Eat it? Damned if I know. This is all new to me.”

“You can put it in your oatmeal,” Sam said. “Or on...salads and...yogurt.” He forced himself to stop talking. Bobby looked up at him, and Sam searched for the anger in his face, the hesitancy, the distrust. He didn't find it. Instead he found that its absence was not at all relieving.

Cas popped in front of Dean, said, “I need your blood,” then grabbed the hand that wasn't holding the flax seed, pricked one of his fingers with a pin, caught a few drops in a bowl, and disappeared before Dean could even start swearing. With Cas gone, he shouted, “You're welcome,” at the ceiling and stuck is finger in his mouth to suck on it, turning back into the fridge to hunt for beer that might be hidden behind the milk or something imported that he'd dismissed on first inspection. He came out a second later, inspecting a bottle.

The quiet of the kitchen weighed on Sam, a pressure building, tightening the muscles in his shoulders. He drew up his courage, forced himself forward, and made his way cautiously to the table, taking a seat across from Bobby. “How—How is your blood pressure?”

“It's fine,” Bobby grouched.

“Did you go to a doctor?”

“I don't need to. They'll just tell me what I already know.”

“But they could, I don't know, give you some pills or something?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. It was hard to tell if his grumpiness was “you tried to kill me” grumpy or “Hi, my name's Bobby Singer” grumpy. And not being able to tell was making Sam dizzy.

“We just...We—you know—care about you.” He winced.

Bobby sighed. “Look, kid. The angel says it's getting better, so it's getting better. I'm fine. You can stop all your fussy worrying.” Then he went back to his meal.

Stop his worrying? But. Wasn't this the point when Bobby should at least say something scathing? “ _Since when do you care about my good health?”_ or “ _Are we seriously talking about blood pressure instead of your crazy time?_ ”

He traded bewildered looks with Dean, then they turned back to Bobby and Sam said, “Christo,” at the same time Dean said, “Cas said that?”

“God, Dean, stop with the jealous crap for like five seconds.”

“Who's jealous?”

“I'm not possessed,” Bobby snapped, standing up with his mostly empty plate and dropping it next to the sink. “If you're staying here, you can do dishes.” Then he marched out of the room.

They watched him leave.

“Well,” Dean said. “That could have gone worse.” He grinned and slapped Sam's shoulder.

“Does he seem really off to you?”

Before Dean could answer, Cas popped up next to them, unarmed this time and making no move to gather ingredients from the kitchen cabinets or steal anyone's fingernails or anything.

“How's your shopping list going?” Dean asked.

“We had an ethical dilemma over how to procure a bone from a whale, but we decided to steal one from a museum in Canada. _Sunshine_ is getting it now.”

“Aww. Look at you, being a friend to whales.”

“Yes. They do many beautiful things.”

“So if there was a sea monster attacking a whale, would you fight it off?”

Weirdly enough, Cas considered this and gave a serious answer. “If I was aware it was happening. And I wasn't needed elsewhere. Yes, I would defend the whale.”

“What if it was a whale versus a giant squid, whose side would you be on?”

“Their disagreements don't concern me. But squid are very rude.”

“Huh.”

Cas turned, pouring concern into his look until Sam wanted to squirm. “How are you, Sam?”

“Uh... You know.”

Cas lowered his eyes, and Sam could breathe although he had the feeling he'd disappointed Castiel. “Of course.”

“But something weird's going on with Bobby.”

“No kidding,” Dean said. “Flax seed? It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

“Should we holy water and silver him?”

“Can you see anything wrong with him, Cas?”

Cas stared off in the direction Bobby had disappeared, maybe looking through the layers of walls to watch the guy putter about in the library. “Bobby is exactly as he is supposed to be.” Which wasn't really an answer. Cas could mean, “God has a plan, and it involves Bobby being eaten by a shape shifter, and so far so good.”

Cas turned back to them. “You're suspicious because Bobby's taking care of his health.”

“Yeah. I know you told him a while ago that he was going to have problems if he kept up with his chili diet, but didn't he tell you to fuck off?”

“Yes.” He frowned at the skillet next to the sink. “He did.”

“So why's he listening to you now?”

“It's...unexpected.”

Sam shifted, then asked as pointed of a question as he could and still hope to get a straight answer. “Should we be worried?”

“No.” Cas straightened, shaking off whatever was weighing on him. “You'll need to recite a spell over the sigils before you break them. I can teach it to you now.”

“I have to do dishes first,” Sam said.

“Then I will dry and teach you while you wash.”

Dean shot them a thumbs up and settled into one of the kitchen chairs with his beer. “Multitasking.”

 

***

 

Dean woke slowly as a murmur from the kitchen washed over him. “—must be so alone.” Under the blanket, he was almost warm. With the way he had curled on his stomach, one arm wedged in the gap between two couch cushions, face half buried in a squishy pillow, he was almost comfortable. If he moved it would get colder and less comfortable, and he'd never be able to find this position again. He could sink back to sleep right now and everything would be fine.

“Why aren't the Winchesters helping you?”

“This isn't their battle. It's mine.”

A pause. And maybe this was just a dream. Maybe he'd sink back into sleep and let this slip from his memory before it made sense.

Then Cas—and it was Cas talking—continued and Dean found himself rising out of sleep to lean into the words, naturally straining to hear the rumble of his voice. “They've already saved the world once, and their involvement would put them in danger. I'm keeping them safe. I'm doing this for them.”

Another pause, and then she responded. Sunshine. Her voice low and blending with the quiet of the night, more curious than angry. “No. That's what you'll tell them, because it's convenient, and they'll believe it, because it's true. But it's only half the truth. Why aren't you telling them everything?...Why aren't you telling me?”

Cas let out an exasperated huff. “There's too much to tell.”

“Try.”

This pause was longer, and when he spoke his voice was low as the deepest confession. “He was raking leaves.”

That wasn't an answer, but Dean felt alertness creep into his skin, prickle uneasily down his spine.

“Sam's last request at the end of the apocalypse was that he make the most of the life he'd fought so hard for. He retired. He was done hunting. When I went to him...he was happy. I couldn't rip him away from the life he'd made. I wouldn't. I couldn't ask him to go against Sam's wishes. I couldn't ask that much of him.”

“He would have said yes.”

“That's why I didn't ask.”

There was no warmth to be found in the blanket. Dean forced himself to keep quiet, to stay still, hiding from the angels or from the squeezing guilt and distress in his stomach.

“What's stopping you from asking now?”

“It's too late.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I will help you on your rescue mission. Then I will return home and continue looking for the weapons of heaven.”

“They aren't powerful enough.”

Cas didn't answer.

“Castiel?” A footstep. Closer to him or away from him, Dean couldn't tell. “You know this.”

Cas sighed.

“What will you do?” she repeated. A bite, something afraid, lingered under her tone.

“What I must.”

Dean held his breath and the angels in the kitchen did as well until Sunshine breathed a horrified, “No.”

Cas shuffled. A hand through his hair or his hands in his pockets or any number of guilty gestures.

“You're that desperate.”

“It's that desperate.”

Another pause and Sunshine's voice changed to a command, shaking off whatever pity had been in her tone. “No. You will join ranks with me, and we will defeat Raphael together.”

Cas had nothing to say to that.

Dean cracked one eye open, the kitchen blurring through his eyelashes. Cas had slumped back against the counter, tired and raw. Sunshine tilted her head and stepped close until their edges glowed in a single teal silhouette from the microwave clock, until she shielded him completely from the dim pool of orange from the outdoor lights over the salvage yard. Her voice lowered almost beyond hearing, and Dean strained to listen.

“Cas,” she said, raising her hand to cup his cheek.

Dean froze, his eyes wide and his muscles seizing.

“You are never alone.” She guided him down to rest his forehead against hers. Heat rushed through Dean's cheeks. Cas' fingers twitched where they hung at his sides.

She spoke so, so softly, but Dean heard every word. “I've had a jacket draped over my shoulders when I was too weak to mend my clothes. I've had a bandage plastered to my cheek when I was too weak to mend my skin. I've been protected and cherished in ways I never thought possible. I've laughed, and our laughter can move mountains. I've been kissed in the rain, and I've had the curve of my spine traced while I pretended to sleep. I was dragged forward when I would rather die, and now I've found you and I'm _glad_ , because now I can drag you. Now I can show you that you are loved too deeply to throw it all away.”

He sighed, almost in defeat, then closed his eyes and sunk into her touch.

For a moment they stood there, breathing each other's air, his mouth pulled into a frown. Then she hummed a laugh on an exhale without opening her eyes. “Stubborn. You're thinking how we're not the same at all and I can never know how you feel. You're not going to listen to me at all.”

His face softened into a sad smile. “I'm envious.”

“Then act. It's all yours for the taking.”

He reached up to cover her hand with his own.

Then she straightened, and it was like they'd never stood so close. “Check the perimeter.”

He nodded and vanished, and Dean snapped his eyes closed, feigning sleep like his life depended on it.

He tried not to listen to her footsteps or the shuffle of her clothes.

“Dean.”

Of course. He peeked to find Sunshine bent over him, far too close, wide eyes sparkling in the dark. She thread her fingers through his hair and murmured, “Go to sleep.”

He wanted to be annoyed about this, annoyed at her. He wanted to shove her away and snap at her for the confusion in his gut and her closeness with his friend. He didn't want to slip into the soothing comfort of her hand. But he was half asleep, and his shoulders relaxed as his eyes eased closed again.

Her voice came quiet and warm, washing over him with the cadence of a spell, so warm it took him a moment to parse a hidden tune and even longer to recognize the words as something other than Enochian. _Say your prayers, little one. Don't forget, my son, to include everyone. Tuck you in, warm within. Keep you free from sin, till the sandman he comes_.

Had his eyes been open, he would have rolled them. As it was, he could just mumble, “This idn't a lullaby.”

“It is if you fall asleep to it.” And she pressed two fingers to his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a relief to get the show on the road. Sure, Dean probably wasn't going to kill anything since these were humans they were dealing with (sucky, kidnapping humans, but still humans.) And sure, this prison (with no scantily clad women, no baked goods, and no excuse for an awesome costume) didn't crack this top ten favorite hunt locations list.

The prison was an old fortress built into a cliff above a churning, gray ocean and below an angry, gray sky. The chill and the damp seeped into his clothes, weighing him down, even though they never came anywhere close to the water. Sam and Dean snuck their way in through an abandoned sewer, which wasn't as bad as some of the more recently used, monster infested sewers Dean had been in, but was still a sewer and therefore not great. Even once they made it out of the sewers, the tunnels crawling deeper and deeper into the cliff threatened to collapse at any moment, and their flashlights left too many shadows for his imagination.

But at least he was moving. Adrenaline kicked in, shoving to the back of his brain all the bullshit his life threw at him. While hunting, he could prioritize the things he knew how to deal with, things that had solutions, physical things like that Sam wasn't bleeding and was still next to him. It was easier than fighting back his growing suspicion of Bobby's freaking eerie attitude adjustments. Easier than obsessing over angel secrets, and how Cas had _come to him for help_ and then apparently _changed his mind_ and _never mentioned it_. Easier than sitting still long enough that his guilt leaked out of wherever he'd stuffed it. And way easier than worrying about Sam's emotional, mental, and fucking _spiritual_ wounds.

While hunting, Sam did the same prioritization dance, pushing back the hurt and the confusion and the guilt, making it like his issues didn't exist.

Dean approved of these issues not existing. Denial rocked. The only way to live. And he liked having his favorite coping strategy validated, even if Sam didn't know he was doing it, and even if it only lasted a few hours.

He grinned as they left the last dark tunnel and fell out into a lit passage. Apparently Team Dickweed used these tunnels enough to install temporary lighting, meaning secrecy was about to go out the window. But at the same time, they wouldn't have to run around in the dark anymore, and Dean was more than ready to punch someone. They made it to the main ward without raising the alarm, knocking out two guys on the way like stealthy ninjas. Not quite as great as a full on fist fight, but. Well. S _tealthy ninjas_.

They found the main ward taking up a whole wall of a large room—a kind of finished cave that acted like a hub for a half dozen tunnels. Maybe at one time, the room was impressive, like at one time the sigil was framed like an altar. It also had two guards, who were eating take out on a card table, and looked beyond boggled at their arrival.

Best guards ever.

Sam shot one with a tranquilizer dart that Sunshine had pulled from somewhere when Sam had bitched about shooting people. She'd stolen it from a zoo or raided a weapon's locker, or maybe she'd transformed a stick and a handful of caterpillars or just magically pulled it out of her ass. Who knew? The goon didn't go down immediately, and Sam had to tackle him before he pulled his gun, punching him once in the face as they both fell over a flimsy folding chair

Goon Two pulled out a walkie-talkie, and got out the beginnings of an alarm, before he had to drop it to defend himself against Dean. They punched and dodged, a gun knocked away here, then a knife knocked away there. All adrenaline. Pure rush.

Sam chanted the spell over the ward, a four line poem in the bastard love child language of Enochian, Arabic, and Welsh. It sounded like an angry, rolling grumble, that every now and then jerked to a hiccuping pause. Cas had said Sam's “th”s needed work, but Dean was a little too busy to notice if he got them right this go around. He hoped so. He took one in the face and then tripped the goon, coming down heavy with his elbow in the dude's back. The guy grunted, and flipped them, going for Dean's kidneys.

Sam rushed the end of his spell, throwing the hex bag against the ward in a burst of purple and black powder. The air changed—a burst of wind like a shock wave as Sam brought down the first level of warding. And then the dude was yanked off of him, and Sam was breathing heavily, looking down at the unconscious man at his feet. He jerked his head towards the ward, and it looked suspiciously like he was flipping his hair out of his face. “More'll be here soon.”

Dean grabbed the duffel bag he'd dropped in the scuffle, digging through it as he crossed to the ward. The sigil was all rough and worn edges, six feet tall and carved deep into the stone. The lines were thicker than Dean had expected and he had a moment of doubt that Bobby's hand-held dremel would be able to make a dent in any reasonable amount of time. Only one way to find out.

He shoved on the safety glasses that Cas had held out back in Bobby's garage, breaking up Dean's excitement over the existence of a rotary bit that would saw through stone (a bit made of diamonds!) and the excitement (not giddiness, shut up) that Bobby was gonna let him use it.

“You should use protective eyewear.”

Dean had squinted at him without taking the glasses. “Do I have to explain the irony of you showing concern for eye safety?”

“I always show concern for eye safety,” Cas said. “People should listen when I tell them to be careful.”

Dean blinked at him.

Cas extended the glasses further into his personal space and repeated, “You should wear protective eyewear.”

And that's how Dean ended up wearing dorky looking glasses. Well, he probably would have anyway, because he wasn't a complete idiot, but now he had someone to blame it on, and that worked for him. Plus, Cas sucked. A lot.

All he had to do to disrupt the ward was carve a line through one side of the big circle in the sigil. Or that was the plan. Now he was wondering if the cut had to be as thick or deep as the ones carving the sigil, because if so, this was going to take forever.

They should have brought dynamite.

They should just ignore the sigils and try this rescue mission without angelic help.

He revved up the dremel and—wow—that was loud. If these fools didn't know they were here already, they would now. The drill wailed against the stone as he started to etch it away. He set his teeth against the buzz. He shot a look over his shoulder at Sam, who picked up the fallen weapons and set his shoulders.

He'd carved a line about four inches long when they started to hear a noise over the drone. Running footsteps. The sound grew, building louder and louder, each beat echoing and disrupting the rhythm of all the beats that came after it, until the air filled with a riot of sound. Dean couldn't have said from which tunnel the goons would come or how far away they were, but Sam had faced one entrance, ready to fight. Ready to go. Ready to fly.

Shouting joined the footsteps.

Dean's scored line had crossed the circle by a spread hand's breadth on each side. No angels appeared. The line looked so small and thin, nearly invisible against the brutal, fat lines of the sigil. Okay, so it had to be thicker. Or deeper. Or both. The footsteps jogged along with the pounding of his heart as he reset for a second pass to make the line twice as thick.

Three goons burst into the room, hit immediately by Sam with tranquilizer darts. One guy stumbled, firing his gun accidentally in Dean's direction. He just barely ducked, raising his elbow like a shield, the dremel twisting in his hand and protesting the new angle with a screech. Sam threw a punch, sending one guy back, kicked another, then wrestled one guy for his gun, both of them snarling and shoving.

“Sam?!”

“Just.” A grunt. “Keep going.” Another punch, an elbow to the stomach of the guy behind him.

Dean straightened the dremel and kept carving, giving it only part of his attention now as he watched Sam over his shoulder. He leaned into the drill, trying to make it go faster. The goons stumbled, dizzy, and bumbling as the drugs took affect, but they still hadn't gone down. Dean checked his progress, then back to the fight.

Sam had one guy down, but another got him in the stomach, and the third headed towards Dean until Sam broke loose and tackled him just as three more dudes spilled out of a tunnel. Three armed, burly dudes, without the benefit of tranquilizers in their systems. Fuck it. Dean switched to a one handed hold on the dremel, drawing his gun from the back of his pants and shooting. He clipped one guy, then sent another ducking enough for Sam to get him, but they'd figured out that their real target should be the ward.

Dean dropped the dremel with a clatter, firing again, and throwing a punch at the fuck that had gotten close enough. A punch, a dodge, uppercut, left. The guy stumbled back enough to aim his gun again, and Dean grabbed his arm and spun, pulling the guy in front of him to block a shot from one of the other goons. The guy in his arms slumped with a gurgle, and Dean dropped to grab the dremel, which was screaming against the stone floor. He checked the second line, not as long as the first, but still long enough.

Still no angels.

Sam shouted, “Drill faster!”

And he snapped back, “Punch harder!” setting himself for yet another pass with the drill, this time going deeper.

“Jerk!”

“Bitch!” Aiming one handed and twisting sideways, half his focus on the drill, he couldn't get a good shot at the last standing goon, locked with Sam as running footsteps and shouts and scuffling fight noises rolled over them from every direction.

Five goons appeared this time, and—yep, this plan officially sucked. Sam crumpled and two guys charged straight for Dean, avoiding one crap shot after another. One was an arm's length away and grabbing for his shoulders as Dean leaned into the drill for all he was worth.

Fingers brushed Dean's jacket, and the guy dropped at Cas' feet.

The angel spared him one angry look before he threw out a hand and, with a wave of power, slammed most of the remaining horde against a wall. Sunshine stood over Sam, righteous fury on her face as she pressed her fingers to a guy's forehead.

Dean cut off the dremel, and Sam pulled himself to his feet, breathing heavily and favoring his left side.

“This was a stupid plan,” Dean said, probably too loudly since he could still hear the phantom roar of the drill.

“I agree,” Cas said.

He didn't want Cas' agreement.

Sunshine sighed. “Then I appreciate your assistance all the more.” She sounded so honest and tired and anxious that some of Dean's anger drained. “The main compound is exposed, but you need to break the ward on their cells.” She pointed down a tunnel. “That way.”

“There are more humans,” Cas said. “We'll take care of as many as we can.”

The angels vanished one after the other, and almost immediately they heard shouts from one of the tunnels.

They grabbed their stuff and jogged, winding deeper and deeper into the cliff. Startled shouts and the bruising sounds of fighting popped around them. Ahead of them. Behind them. They stumbled over the slumped forms of people the angels had put to sleep, clearing the way. And here and there Sunshine popped up, running next to them for a stretch to guide them onward or correct a missed turn, and Cas would appear next to them to check they were still alive before teleporting off to drop the guys in the next tunnel.

How many of these goons did Raphael have?

They rounded a corner into a widened cavern to find Cas and Sunshine standing shoulder to shoulder, their backs facing Sam and Dean, planted like an immovable wall to protect them. Across the cavern stood two men, their pressed, black suits and the glint of angel blades giving away their identity.

The angels sneered. “Castiel.”

But Cas and Sunshine moved before the speech could even start. They flew. A flash of silver as blades spun and blocked and slashed. They dodged, twisting, snagging the angels in one hold after another, caught and then broken, caught and then broken. They twisted and ducked and teleported, popping around their foes as their foes popped around them, the battle flickering in and out of existence. Sunshine's blue raincoat flared behind her as she threw herself like a falling star—blurred energy that exploded as it crashed—then bounced back to fly again. Cas tossed one angel over his shoulder, and the man vanished in midair, reappearing with a slash of his blade only to find Cas ready for him with a block.

Sunshine got enough space between her and her opponent to throw out a hand at the other battle at the exact same moment that Cas vanished. His foe stumbled and then Cas was on top of him, blade buried in his chest. Light blazed out of the wound, then out of the angel's eyes, out of his mouth as he screamed, and Dean threw his arms over his face as the room exploded with light.

When he turned blinking back to the battle, the angel lay sprawled on the floor, wings burned into the ground at an awkward angle, and Cas and Sunshine had teamed up against the last angel. The man held his own for a full two seconds. And then he was down, sinking to his knees with Sunshine's blade under his ribs, light flaring from his eyes.

Cas' sword had already disappeared back into the sleeve of his coat, as both angels stood over the slain, their faces carefully blank.

“They know we're here,” Sunshine said. “We have to hurry. More will be here soon.”

Sam was already moving across the room, and Dean followed, setting his shoulders and tightening his grip on the strap of his duffel bag and trying not to step on wings made of ash. Sunshine blinked away and Cas lead them down the next tunnel. He had a slash in his sleeve that he hadn't bothered to fix, his tie even more askew than usual.

Not that Dean cared, he reminded himself. Fancy Warrior of God shit didn't make up for being weird in Bobby's kitchen. As soon as they'd rescued these kids and were back at Bobby's, he was going to shout at Cas until he went hoarse and felt better. Or until Cas sighed and left without a word. Whichever came first.

Three tunnels later, Cas slid to a stop, grabbing Dean's arm to hold him back. “I can't go any further until the next ward is down.”

He gave a curt nod. “See ya in a bit.”

Cas didn't let go of his arm. “If the ward is in place, Raphael's angels can't follow you, but the humans working for him can. We've thinned their numbers, but I can't tell how many are hidden by the ward.”

“Got it.”

Cas glared at him. “Don't die.”

“Dude.” Dean rolled his eyes. First of all, who says shit like that? And secondly, he didn't want Cas' concern.

From further down the hallway, Sam assured, “We'll be careful.”

Alright. So. Moment over.

Instead, Dean and Cas continued to frown at each other.

Finally, against his better judgment, he asked, “What?”

The uncomfortable look on Cas' face was never, ever a good sign. “Things are about to get...strange.”

“Well, no offense,” Sam said, “but things haven't exactly been normal so far.”

Dean nodded. “No kidding. Look, I'm wearing safety goggles.”

Cas pressed his lips together, his eyes darting to Sam and back. “I've warned you.”

“Well, thanks for that. As always, that's real helpful.”

Cas looked like he was about to say something more, but then his head snapped around. The hand on Dean's arm tightened painfully, before he was shoved down the hallway, managing to keep his feet only by stumbling into Sam. Sam's jaw tightened, his Adam's apple bobbing with a thick swallow, and Dean straightened, turning to see the angel that had appeared back down the hallway.

Cas stood between them again, sword in hand, half blocking the guy's view as he glared over Cas' shoulder at Sam and Dean. Ten dollars said they were inside the ward.

Cas didn't look over his shoulder for a pointed stare reassuring that he'd be fine, or ordering them to be safe. But Dean could imagine it.

He grabbed Sam's sleeve and dragged him forward. “Come on.” They couldn't help. The sooner they got the next ward down, the sooner they could get out of here. All they could do if they stayed would be to cheer-lead or send good vibes. Even if it didn't feel right, they had to leave Cas to it. He could take care of himself. And anyway, Dean was mad at him and his cryptic, ominous pronouncements.

It wasn't far to the second ward. Only two squirrely guys guarded it, fidgeting, probably knowing what was happening in the other parts of the prison but held back as a last resort, waiting and anxious for the fight to come to them. They went down easy. One even looked like he might surrender before Dean grabbed the front of his shirt, punched him in the face, and let him fall to the floor, unconscious or playing possum.

This ward was smaller, protecting a branch of tunnels that held actual cells. Apparently there were more like this one, guarding other areas of the prison, but no one cared about those. The sigil was carved into a metal grate, all rusting bars and planes of iron, so Dean had to switch bits on the dremel, changing from the now dusty diamond bit to a metal cutter. The gate was falling apart with age, and with the smaller sigil and the shallower depth of the carved lines, it didn't take that long to bring it down. The dremel just buzzed at a higher, more squeally pitch that overwhelmed everything else.

He dragged the rotary blade along, keeping the line neat despite the uneven surface that snagged and fought back. An inch. Another. One more. The wail in his ears hurt all the way to the back of his eyes. His fingers cramped. He looked over his shoulder to check on Sam.

And there was a guy there.

Well, three guys.

But only the one had Dean staring down the barrel of the gun.

He hadn't even heard them.

He heard the shot though. A boom so deep it rolled under the drill's screaming. It reverberated through the floor, through his bones. He jerked backwards, flinching.

And when he opened his eyes, all he saw was tan. Cas' back as he stood like an angelic shield, but only for a heartbeat before he had the gunman pinned to the floor.

When Cas turned, he had a bloodless bullet hole in his shirt. His hair stuck straight up on one side, a splatter of blood speckled his coat, and his lip was split. Sunshine didn't look much better as she pulled back from the last goon and marched to the gate. Her hair was in frizzing disarray, falling out of the clip thing she used. A slash across her side consisted of a spill of blood and fraying rips through layers of her clothes, with no sign that the wound was still there. Her eyes burned, knowing her humans were within reach and nothing on earth or in heaven could keep her from them.

She slammed the butt of her hand against the grate, and it exploded inwards with a screaming clang. And like her own building explosion of determination and rage, she marched forward, shifting quickly into a sprint as she passed cell door after rusting cell door, each with a sigil scrawled onto it.

Someone shouted from up ahead, close enough now that Dean could almost make out words.

And Sam slammed to a stop.

Dean skidded a few steps past him before spinning, expecting to see his brother frozen in place by invisible angel hands, choked by a force grip, or thrown against a wall. Instead, Sam just looked startled, his mouth open, his eyes wide.

“Sammy?”

Sunshine ran half way down the hall before skidding to a stop in front of a door and slapping her hand to the sigil. It lit up under her palm. Cas dashed another ten feet and did the same. Both their eyebrows crinkled in concentration. The lights under their hands spun, clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, like some kind of angelic combination lock.

Under it all, Sam's “Dean?” came out weak. And with that Dean knew—deep in his gut—that only something horrible could come out of those cells.

Someone shouted, “Cas!” and Dean froze, hearing the same thing Sam had picked up on a moment earlier.

It was Dean's voice.

And it wasn't coming from Dean's throat.

Sunshine's jaw clenched, her nose scrunching up as the last few turns of the lock sapped at her strength. Then the whole thing clunked and the light flashed and vanished, and she slammed the door open for someone to come tumbling out.

For Dean to come tumbling out.

He had blood, both dried and fresh, covering half his face and running down his neck into his collar, over his shoulder. He had slashes through his shirt and jeans, more blood and bruises and the general filth he'd come to expect after a few days of torture.

“Goddamnit, Cas, what took you so long?”

Sunshine glared, getting up in his face despite their height difference and accusing, “You're hurt.”

“I'm fine.”

She snarled at the blatant lie, prodded two fingers against his forehead to clear the blood, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and, with a growl, yanked him into a fierce kiss, that was possessive and practiced and instantly returned.

From down the hallway, Sam and Dean stared, eyebrows spiked, their shoulders rolling back in surprise. Sam blinked way too many times in a row, as if he could rub the image off his eyeballs. Dean just managed to point at them and take a preparatory breath for some sort of comment, but nothing ever came out.

They'd both completely forgotten that they were kind of in the middle of something and it was sort of urgent, until Sunshine jerked back from Dean's face sucking twin, and Face Sucking Twin yelled, “Sam?” Because, of course, Face Sucking Twin had priorities.

“He's here.” Cas's face was still crunched up as he spun through the last cycles of the lock. The light vanished with a clunk and Cas stepped back to let Sam's twin, with identical stupid sideburns and too long limbs, leave his cell. The blood on his clothes triggered something queasy and confusing in Dean's chest. Sam's doppelganger eyed Cas warily until Sunshine charged forward to inspect his injuries and glare at what was probably a broken rib. She pressed her fingers to his forehead more gently than she'd done with Fake Dean, like it wasn't Fake Sam's fault he'd gotten tortured by angel goons, but it was definitely Fake Dean's fault. That ass.

Fake Dean barked at Cas, “Who the hell are you?” but there was more exhaustion than menace in his voice.

Cas tilted his head and stared for a moment, before nodding in Sam and Dean's direction. Fake Dean spun.

Took them in.

Then relaxed. “Right. So I guess you went through with _that_ plan.”

...

What?

“Huh?” Sam said.

Fake Dean had already turned back to Cas, giving him a much more thorough once over than he had given Real Dean. Cas had already looked away to a spot on the wall as if disinterested or uncomfortable or something. Not “queasy” and “reeling” like the normal people in the hallway.

Fake Dean announced, “Well, this is weird.”

Cas agreed with a hum that cut off as he and Sunshine snapped around to face a point down the hall. “We need to go,” Cas said.

“Split up and lose them.” Sunshine grabbed Fake Sam and Fake Dean and vanished, and Cas was suddenly in front of them, taking them both by the shoulder and yanking them into the ether. They flashed through sceneries, one, another, another. Flashes of changing light, of cold and smells and noises hitting one after the next. A forest, a mountain top, an office building, the Taj Mahal. They jumped so fast Dean only realized where they'd been after they'd moved to the next place. He could almost feel the flight, the woosh of wings and the change of air pressure. He could feel someone following, some malevolent presence on their heels.

A beach, a corn field, a crowded square. Dean couldn't breathe. They moved too fast to catch a breath. A ship yard, a hotel lobby, somewhere dark. The angel chasing them fell behind. Dean wasn't sure his feet touched the ground. A playground, a butcher's shop, a rave, a desert. Heat beat against him and vanished, a siren burst in his ears then rang in silence. Dean squeezed his eyes closed. He couldn't feel the angel on their heels.

A museum, a subway station, and back to Bobby's front porch. The sudden halt sent him staggering, his head reeling as the dozen places he'd visited caught up with him, along with the general What The Fuck of this whole damned mess.

“Sonuvabitch.” He pressed his palm against the side of the house and caught his breath. “Sonuvabitch.” He shook his head. “We're in an alternate universe, aren't we?”

Cas let his eyes slide away in that shifty way of his. “Castiel thought telling you might distract from the rescue.”

“Casti—Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”

“Wait,” Sam said, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

Cas nodded, almost to himself. “I believe our realities diverged when she and I chose different vessels.”

Dean groaned. Alternate freaking realities. Fan-fucking-tastic.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam and Dean hid in the living room, dripping holy water on the upholstery and staunching the blood from silver knife cuts.

Bobby hadn't been thrilled about the duplicate thing.

He'd been even less thrilled to find out that the wrong set of Winchesters stayed in his house last night. After checking that everyone was human, and Sunshine's (too late and too brief) explanation that they were from a different universe, and her dismissive conclusion that there was nothing to worry about, Bobby'd parked himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter where he could glare at everyone without turning his back to any of them, hat pulled low, arms folded over his chest.

It reminded Sam too much of their own Bobby.

The other trio had settled into the kitchen to strategize, their rapport easy, their postures comfortable, thankful to be out of captivity, and...thankful to be _together_. Even Bobby's mood couldn't bring them down. It was weird to watch. Like when Sam looked at photos of himself as a child, holding proof in his hand that he'd been happy and smiling, but unable to remember why.

They hadn't stopped to fill Sam in on the details of their plan, but just jumped into whether or not Sunshine had had an issue bringing Cas into their universe, and a discussion of (as far as Sam could tell) a tangential, hypothetical problem that they'd worried would come up during the jump between realities. Cas had looked no more awkward than usual, standing in some other family's kitchen, answering questions and talking about a bigger plan that he hadn't thought to share.

As much as Sam'd wanted to follow—because it did sound interesting and he wanted to help—he just couldn't. Not with his attention constantly dragged away by the jarringly familiar elbow nudges Other Dean prodded into Sunshine's ribs, or the completely alien smiles he'd give her. Or by the way Other Sam pushed his hair out of his face and then trouble-shot angel quantum mechanics. Or by the way Bobby had glared at him.

Dean had stood at his side, following the conversation even less than Sam, his arms folded even tighter than Bobby's. While Sam simmered from shock to curiosity, Dean looked frankly unnerved. History told them that when Dean got this unnerved, he started lashing out.

So they'd retreated to the living room, Other Dean's eyes following them, suspicion concealed under easy set shoulders. But then Sunshine shifted, and his eyes darted to her, and in some unspoken communication she told him she had it covered and he relaxed. Sam could read him like a book, and had to turn quickly back to his brother, just to remind himself which was which.

“I don't like it,” Dean said, dropping onto the sofa and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to keep his voice low. “This place is weird. We came here for a rescue mission, we did the rescue mission, we saw the sights, so now we can say sayonara Bizarro World.”

“You're not curious?”

His answer was too quick and too obstinate. “No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No, you nerd. Alternate realities always suck. We should get out of here before they invite us to an orgy, or offer us amphetamines, or try to teach us a lesson.” He gave a curt nod.

“I don't think it's like that. They look normal. Happy. Like things are good here.” Too good. Other Sam had a lightness about him that Sam hadn't felt in years and couldn't understand.

“Might be the amphetamines,” Dean said, with another serious nod.

Whatever. If Dean wasn't going to be helpful...well, Dean was never really helpful. Sam started talking through it on his own. “Cas said, the only real difference between this universe and ours is his choice of vessel.”

“You mean this Cas picked up a chick.”

“Yeah. I mean. I still died, and you still went to hell. He— _she_ still pulled you out. We started the apocalypse. We stopped the apocalypse.” Sam shrugged.

“Dude, are you blind? That not the only thing that's changed. They're all _huggers_ , Sam. Huggers. And you and me, we didn't go get ourselves kidnapped. Our Bobby, he doesn't give a rat's ass about his blood pressure.”

“Yeah, but what I'm saying is that all the changes we're seeing, somehow those are rooted in that one decision.” He pressed his hands palms together to demonstrate. “Our universes were the same, but then our Cas made one choice while this Cas made another.” His hands branched apart in a Y. “So our universe went one way and theirs went somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, leaning forward and hissing like he wanted to shout, but was trying not to draw the attention of the camp in the kitchen. He pointed back and forth between Sam's hands, indicating the distance between his fingertips until Sam slapped him away. “The universes diverged. So now there are carloads of differences.”

“But I think they've diverged all based on decisions we would have made if we were in their place. You know?”

“No. Those people are nothing like us.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “If our Cas was a woman, we'd treat him like the people here treat Sunshine. It all flows. Like the Bobby thing. He said Cas told him to take better care of himself. And, you know, I've heard our Cas tell our Bobby that too, and he told him to mind his own business and get out of his house.”

“But if everyone here does the same things we would, then why didn't this Bobby also tell Cas to fuck off?”

“Because she's cute.”

Dean's eyes narrowed.

“People treat her differently because she looks different. It might not be fair, but it's how the world works. A pretty woman from heaven shows up and tells Bobby she's concerned about his blood pressure, he's gonna listen to her more than he listens to Cas—our Cas—guy Cas, even if they both sound grumpy while they're saying it.”

“So you're saying, all this time, we just needed a girl to tell Bobby to get his act together?”

“Who knows? It's not like we've ever tried.”

Dean thought about this, letting his head tilt to the side and puckering his lips.

Sam hesitated, lowering his voice to something soothing, knowing he was approaching thin ice. “It explains the...the other part too.”

“What other part?”

“Well...how long do you think it took Other Dean to sleep with Sunshine?”

Dean snapped up to gawk at him. “Jesus, Sam!”

“Like you weren't thinking about it all day yesterday.”

“Wha—I— _No_.”

“Just listen—”

“No. You listen. It's Cas! If what you're saying is it's all in how people treat him, then how did that make her not a freaking robot for the first year? I wouldn't have hit that.”

“You know he's gotten more human. During the apocalypse, when he was cut off from heaven. When he fell. _For you_.”

“Shut up.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Well, don't. We're friends. He's family. End of story.”

Sam surrendered, leaning back in his chair with a roll of his eyes. Part of living with Dean was knowing how to pick your battles.

Dean only glared at the far bookcase for another moment before leaning forward, apparently deciding that retreating from the conversation at this point would leave Sam with the wrong idea. Not that diving back into it could change his mind all that much.

“No. No, because if they're the same except for the way they look, then why were they arguing the other night?”

Sam frowned. “They were arguing?”

“Yeah. I didn't get it then, but now it kinda makes sense. Our Cas didn't want us to come along on this mission. He didn't want us involved in his civil war at all. But I guess the other Winchesters have been helping the war effort from the beginning and she couldn't understand why Cas didn't want us around. He thinks her plan to win the war is too risky for us, and she thinks his plan's insane.”

“What is his plan? The weapons thing?”

“I don't know. Doesn't sound like it. She said they wouldn't be powerful enough. Like it's a fact and everyone knows it. But then why would he have bothered?”

“Huh.”

“So explain that. If they're exactly the same, why're they fighting? Why doesn't our Cas want us around when girl Cas does?”

Sam frowned. “Well, if she and other Dean are sleeping together—” Dean made a noise, but Sam ignored it. “—Then maybe they didn't split up after...after Stull Cemetery. If you two were together, I wouldn't have asked you to try to work it out with—” He bit his own tongue to stop talking.

Dean shifted, his jaw clenching, some of the color draining from his face. It took him a second to get back on track, sidestepping the sticky patch and not looking back. “Cas was heaven's sheriff. He was finally allowed back, and he was itching to leave. No way he would have stayed here.”

“If the two of you were in a relationship, he might not have been in such a hurry to leave. And he's an angel, I'm sure they can multi-task. Balance their work and social life.”

Dean sneered. “Yeah, because we know Cas is _so_ good at that.”

“If he tried—“

“But he doesn't want to try. That's my point. Why is girl Cas trying?”

“Because she knows Other Dean loves her back? I don't know. Why don't you ask them. I'm sure they'd tell you how it all went down.”

Dean cringed. “Imagine that conversation. No, thank you.”

He had a point. Other Dean would probably tell them everything. With a huge smirk, a metric ton of bragging, and graphic details not even remotely concealed by his select choice in “code words.” Sam winced.

Actually...

He pushed himself out of Bobby's recliner. “I've got an idea.”

“What?”

He didn't answer and headed to the kitchen, slowing as he approached. Bobby had softened, trying to hold back a smile at something one of them had said. Other Sam and Dean were flat out laughing, and Other Sam...

He had draped himself floppily over Sunshine's shoulders, hanging heavy in a way that would crumple anyone without angelic strength. His shoulders framed her ears, his forearms under her chin, and he slouched to prop his chin on top of her head. And she just stood there, talking to Cas and letting Sam do his thing. Like he was her dumb, little brother. Like she didn't notice. No one noticed. Not Other Dean or Other Bobby or Cas. Like this happened all the time.

When was the last time Sam had been that at ease with _anyone_? Jo? Jess? Jesus.

Cas was the first to notice his reappearance. Or, more specifically, his gawking in the doorway.

“Sam.”

Everyone turned to him, still kinda smiling. Bizzaro World was right.

“Uh.” He blinked. “Sorry, uh. I was wondering if I could use your computer?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Other Sam peeled himself away to grab a laptop from the kitchen table, half hidden under some books and an open tupperware of potato salad with the fork still in it. He made a face and shoved it at Other Dean, who took it with a shrug and started eating.

Other Sam handed over the laptop with a smile. “Here. You doing research?”

He didn't look like he found it as weird to talk to himself as Sam did. Maybe he was just putting on a good show, being a nice host, trying to make his guests feel comfortable. Or maybe this just didn't phase him. He looked so easy. So earnestly interested in his own mirror image.

Sam put up his own front. Friendly. Responsible. Sympathetic. In happier times, he was all these things. He could power through this. “Yeah. We were wondering how different our universes are.”

“I was wondering that too. But I didn't know how much you'd want us to pick your brain asking questions.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Yeah. That'd be awkward.”

“I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“I've got an idea. You want to...um...work together?”

Other Sam's face lit up, and Sam found himself honestly smiling back.

Other Dean coughed, sounding eerily like the word “Nerds.”

 

***

 

As much as girl Cas and Cas were nothing at all alike, and Fake Dean was from Mars or something (not that Dean had talked to him), the Sams were fucking twinsies. He could still tell them apart and everything, but still. They were both gigantic, know-it-all, baby brothers.

Maybe they could talk about their feelings and braid each other's hair.

Sam returned with his new best friend and a familiar laptop: Fake Sam's laptop, which looked exactly like Normals Sam's, complete with that one scuff mark and that one green sticker the size of a postage stamp. So weird. Dean wondered if they had the same bookmarks, and if there was a bookmark folder marked “Dean's” that Sam never ever opened and pretended didn't exist except to frown at it and bemoan how his brother was such a perv.

The folder was actually only half full of porn. The other half was videos of how to marinate baby back ribs and make tiramisu (which he guessed could count as porn if you were into that). Also links to streaming TV shows that he needed to keep up with but wouldn't admit to watching.

Was Dr. Sexy M.D. exactly the same in this universe or had it also branched off at some point to unfold in its own wacky direction? Wait. If it did, did that mean _this universe had episodes he hadn't seen?!_

Okay. So maybe Sam's research idea wasn't so bad. But the alternate universe thing on the whole still blew.

Sam took his seat again, settling in with a huff, and Fake Sam hovered over his shoulder, leaning his forearms against the back of the chair. This didn't seem to bother Sam at all, but then again, the two of them probably finished each other's sentences.

Sam opened the laptop, started typing, and Fake Sam's face split into surprised delight. “Oh! Good call.”

Sam smirked, the light on his face changing color as he clicked on a site.

Dean didn't want to know.

Cas drifted in after them, apparently done with his secret kitchen meeting. Was Dean seriously the only one who didn't want to exchange Christmas cards with these people?

After watching clones of themselves make out, any normal person would try to keep as much distance between themselves and their best friend as possible. Avoid one another. Walk in opposite directions. That kinda thing. But Cas was the farthest thing from normal, and the most socially incompetent person ever, so he came and took a seat on the sofa next to Dean. Dean had to shift to put some space between them so they wouldn't slide towards each other with the dip in the sofa cushions.

“Castiel has a plan to defeat Raphael,” Cas said.

“I gathered that much, thanks.”

Sam stopped typing, both Sams going unnaturally still. Maybe they were reading and not just listening in on their conversation. But probably not.

“You're upset,” Cas said.

“I don't like people dropping bombs on me.”

Cas nodded, looking only a little bit guilty. “And this reality makes you uncomfortable.”

Seriously? Now _Cas_ wanted to talk about feelings? “I just don't get why we're still here. The job's done. And if I was gonna care about a heavenly civil war, it'd be the one in my own universe. And you don't want my help. So why should I care about girl Cas' problems?”

Cas stopped, his train of thought derailing in surprise, the guilt and seriousness falling from his face. “Girl Cas?”

Dean blinked. “Yeah.”

“You need a modifier to tell us apart?” Cas squinted, still constantly confused by the limited nature of the human brain.

“Well, you don't like 'Sunshine.'”

Cas scowled. “I don't.”

“Weird that she likes it.” He shot a pointed look at Sam to say _See? Different._ But Sam was still pretending not to listen.

“But now you've stopped using it,” Cas said.

“You don't like it.”

Cas tilted his head to the side and let his scowl fall away. “Have you given other counterparts in this universe modifiers?”

Dean jerked his head towards the kitchen. “Fake Dean.” Then he pointed at the Sams in turn. “Thing One and Thing Two.”

They both shot him bitch faces before folding back into their huddle over the laptop.

“There's no 'real' or 'fake' Dean,” Cas said. “The Dean in this universe is just as authentic as you are.”

“Okay, first of all, ow. Second of all, he's wearing my face, but he's not me. That makes him Fake Dean.”

Cas considered this, and then nodded slowly.

The Sams had started murmuring to each other. “All of this. That happened.”

“What about...um...” Fake Sam reached over the back of the chair to point at something on the screen, looking uncomfortable. “That?”

Sam matched his discomfort. “Yeah.”

“And. Uh. That?”

Sam exhaled in defeat. “Yeah.”

They both held a moment of silence for whatever horror existed in their mutual past. Dean could only guess, but all his guesses were traumatizing. Sam scrolled down whatever page they were on.

Cas picked the conversation back up. “Castiel wants to join forces across realities, bringing several Castiels together so we can combine our power.”

The fuck? “And with your powers combined, you can take down an archangel.”

“If there are seven of us, our strength will increase by a factor of seven.” Something in Cas' voice nibbled at the edges of disdain or mockery, and that caught at Dean's attention. He realized Cas thought this situation was as stupid as Dean did.

Huh.

Some of his irritation dimmed.

“But you'll also have to go around to the different universes and fight the guy seven times. Unless you're just offing the one here and letting the other six of you fend for yourselves.”

“Oh. No,” Sam said, and Dean looked over to see it was actually Fake Sam. Both of them were done pretending they weren't listening. “There's a ritual to combine their powers so all of them are super charged. Then they go back to their own universe and fight their own battle.”

“Super charged?” Dean couldn't decide if that sounded terrifying or really cool. He was leaning towards terrifying.

“That's her plan,” Cas said. “She wants our help recruiting my counterparts in other realities.”

“Our help, or your help?”

“Your help.” Cas scowled. “She doesn't trust me to make the plan look appealing.”

Okay, so maybe Dean still liked girl Cas a little bit, because she definitely had a point there and seeing someone call Cas on his shit was kind of endearing.

Sam interrupted, “Here we go.”

“What?”

He read, “Free to be you and me.”

Dean blinked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Well, maybe.” He made a disgusted face. “At least I'm pretty sure this didn't happen.” He developed a sudden, shifty fidget through his limbs, setting Dean's nerves on edge. Sam passed over the computer, and Dean settled it in his lap to see a .pdf pulled up on the screen, a wall of black on white text and a header that said—

“Carver Edlund! Are you kidding me?”

Sam shrugged. “Seemed the fastest way.”

Cas leaned into Dean's shoulder to read along. Once Cas had realized that he was in the later books, he'd suddenly become much more attentive of Chuck's work (beyond the “Chuck is a Profit of the Lord and his work must be respected” thing he used to do). He'd pretended that he didn't care, but was obviously offended that the volumes in which he appeared were only published online. He'd asked Dean if there was anything they could do to help persuade the publishing company to pick the series up again, because _it would surely be God's will_.

Like that fooled anyone.

Cas pointed at the screen. Judging from the scroll bar, they were about a third of the way through the story. “I recall this happening. But I assume the narrative diverges from here.”

Dean read.

 

“ _Do we have any chance of surviving this?”_

“ _You do,” Castiel said, her certainty betraying none of her fear._

“ _So odds are you're dead tomorrow.”_

“ _Yes.”_

“ _Well,” Dean said, unsure how to argue with a suicidal angel and throwing on a half-hearted grin. “Last night on earth. What are your plans?”_

_She clasped her thin hands in her lap and looked around the small motel room, with its peeling wallpaper and fraying carpet, the last setting she would ever see. “I just thought I'd sit here quietly.”_

 

Dean leaned his head back and groaned. Fake Dean wouldn't take girl Cas to a brothel. And Fake Dean probably had a “last night on earth” speech almost as good as Dean's. This was headed nowhere good fast.

Cas reached over to the mouse pad to scroll to the next page.

“Hey!”

“You're reading too slowly,” he said. “We already know this part.”

“And the next part is a mystery?”

“I want to know how you manage to seduce me.”

“How I _manage_?”

“Yes.”

“Like a boss! That's how!”

Cas' expression dripped with skepticism, his eyes still moving as he read.

Fake Sam moseyed over to lean against the back of the sofa and read over their shoulders, and then probably snuggle them or something. And Cas pressed against Dean's side for a better view. It was suddenly way too warm. Too many eyes. Not enough room to breathe.

“Wait. No.” He shoved at Cas's side, but the guy had gone all immovable. “We are not sitting next to each other reading this.”

“That's true,” Cas said. “I'm the only one of us reading.”

“Damnit, Cas. Just—shove over.” He elbowed until Cas consented to scoot, just enough to almost look like he was cooperating, but still firmly inside Dean's personal space. Dean swatted his hand away until he could take over the scroll bar again, because if this train wreak was happening, he was damned well gonna drive. Cas frowned and rolled his head to the side to give Dean his most utterly unamused stare.

Dick.

“God. How does he stay not ticked at you long enough to make out?”

“Maybe it's hate sex,” Cas said, completely deadpan.

Dean stared at him. Cas gave him as overly innocent look, all big, blue eyes that freaking sparkled with virtuous angel magic.

Dean shook his head and turned back to the computer to find Cas had already skipped a long portion.

 

_Once, in order to break a curse on a town, Dean had had to kiss a statue. At the time, they predicted only a 40/60 success rate, but without any better ideas, they gave it a shot._

_Dean had climbed up, balancing one foot on the head of one of the bronze geese at the statue's feet, one foot on the pedestal on which the statue stood. He braced himself with one hand on her basket of roses, and leaned forward. He had decided that, with the whole town at stake, he should give it everything he had. He'd use tongue and grab the statue's ass. He'd make it the best kiss of that statue's life. As a bonus, enthusiastic groping of a town landmark would disgust and embarrass his brother enough to put an end to any teasing._

_However, face to face with her, he found a softness, an innocence. The spirit of the sleepy town looked back at him, and he placed the most chaste and gentle kiss against the cold bronze of her lips._

_Now he stood before Castiel on her last night on earth. As much as a part of him pushed to make it good, the look in her wide, blue eyes caused him to hesitate. Suddenly, all he wanted was to reach out and smooth the startled creases from her forehead. He wanted to ease the fear from her eyes. He brushed a thumb over her cheek, fingers slipping into her hair. He licked his lips and leaned in, careful to move slowly, and careful to hold her gaze, waiting for the moment she would relax or freak out completely and shove him away._

_When he pressed his lips to hers, they were just as still as the statue's and the kiss just as short. She was exactly as confused and exactly as tense when he pulled back. Instead of leering, he smiled. “How was that?”_

_The back of her neck softened under his hand, her eyes softening as well. She breathed again. “That was...” Her eyes shifted down to his lips, eyelids growing heavy._

_The second kiss was better. She melted into his touch, suddenly pliant under his lips and warm as she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew herself against him._

_The third kiss decided things. He breathed her name and there was a choke in it that spoke of all the lingering gazes and all the heat in his chest, all the times she'd saved him and all the times he'd ruined her. She moaned, pressing against him, bruising and needy. She stole all his air and sent a burning heat through his lips and down his spine. Her sudden intensity took him by surprise, and she latched onto his jacket and twisted, teleporting them to land sprawled on the bed in his hotel room._

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. We're not reading this.” Dean splayed his hands over the screen to cover it, hovering just over the glass so Sam won't have a shit fit about smudges. He glared up at Fake Sam and pointed a finger at him. “You're not reading this. No one's reading anything about Cas' virginity or boobs or—or noises. She doesn't need this. Give her some privacy.” He slammed the laptop shut and snapped, “She's an _angel_. This is _wrong_.”

That speech earned him three identical looks of confused disbelief. Well, two identical looks, and one look from Cas that was just really super similar.

Fake Sam laughed. “Dude. Did you just defend her honor?”

“No.”

“You don't get protective about Cas' virginity,” Sam said.

“That's—“

“It's what? Different?”

“Yes. It's—“ Oh shit. It was different. Sam was right.

He knew it too. He looked downright gleeful.

Dean groaned and let his head flop backward against the couch. Fake Sam slapped him on the shoulder. When Dean opened his eyes, his brother's clone grinned at him from upside-down. His life was a hall of mirrors, surrounded on all sides by heckling brothers.

Cas was warm against his side again. He shifted the computer out of Dean's lap, reopened it, and kept reading. Dean glared until Fake Sam went away, then begrudgingly went back to reading along with Cas. Because it was hard not to when it was right there. Plus Cas needed supervision.

Apparently, holy angel superpowers included speed reading trashy novels, photographic memory, and instant recall. Together, these skills would make Cas the undefeated champion of those “spot the difference” puzzles they had in kid's magazines in hospital waiting rooms. He scrolled through crap about horsemen and long descriptions of the Midwest, stopping every few minutes to point out some minute difference.

During their confrontation, Raphael said a few rude things about being able to smell the human on Cas, as if he could see grubby hand prints on her grace, but she didn't rise to the bait and the conversation went mostly the way Dean remembered it. And then Cas was scrolling again, eventually coming to the end of the novel, closing the window, and opening the next from a link on the Supernatural Wikipedia page the Sams had open in the background.

Scrolling.

Scrolling.

He stopped about twenty pages later and pointed at the word “bitch.” “In our universe, you called me a dick.” Then he kept scrolling.

Book Cas from the future wore a man's shirt with the sleeves tied in a bow across her ribs, baring her shoulders. Book Dean kept getting distracted by a mole just under her collar bone. But she still had the same cynical twist to her smile and the same glaze over her blue eyes. She still laughed and said, “What? I like past Dean.”

The weirdest part of it all was how little things were different. Apart from some gendered slurs (which got Sam started on a rant about casual sexism and how Dean was part of the problem) and that one sex scene, there was pretty much no change for two and a half books. There was absolutely no follow up to the whole “last night on earth” thing. Dean didn't buy her flowers and Castiel didn't try to hold hands. They still fought over everything. They still had prolonged, intense staring contests and invasions of personal space, but those weren't unusual or charged with sexual tension or anything. They weren't even sort of awkward around each other. They just went on with the apocalypse, time traveling and picking up Sam and killing pagan gods.

It started to make Dean think that Chuck had made up the whole episode for some stupid literary reason.

Or at least, he thought that until Book Dean finally let Sam out of his sight and he and Castiel found themselves alone in a hotel room for the first time in three books. He turned from the TV, raised an eyebrow, and smirked. “So—”

Before he could finish his proposition, she'd shoved him back on the bed, pinned his hands over his head, sealed her mouth tight against his, and undid his fly _with her mind_.

“Holy shit. You can _do_ that?”

“Yes,” Cas said, still reading.

Huh.

Dean shifted.

 

Fun facts about angel sex that Dean seriously didn't need to know, doesn't buy would ever apply to him, and doesn't want to think about in reference to his best friend:

 

  * There are a lot of exploding light bulbs, shattering glass, and power surges.

  * Apparently, angels know their own strength unless they get really distracted. It sounded painful. Maybe it was just that Chuck's writing sucked (which it did), but all the slamming against walls and pinning against mattresses only sounded appealing if Dean sat back for a few minutes to think about it (which he was not going to do).

  * There was a lot about how he could hold her grace in his arms, how it enveloped him. And he didn't know how literal that was, or if it was just Chuck being flowery, but it sounded terrifying.

  * The “ _explosive power of his own bliss”_ actually caused Dean to black out. Every time. What bullshit. It was probably from the multiple concussions he surely had by the time it was all over. Chuck was a moron.

  * When Book Dean regained consciousness, panting and stated and boneless, Cas would be there, tracing her lips over his skin, erasing the bruises on his wrists, on his hips, the scratches on his back, the possessive red marks on his neck, on his shoulders. There was something worshiping about it, and Dean always dragged her closer before he fell asleep.




 

But seriously, all that changed was the sex. With growing frequency, it was just _there_ , and then everything else was exactly as Dean remembered it. Which, first of all, meant he and Cas were just reading the porn parts of this story and skipping everything else, and out of all the dumb crap he'd never thought he'd do with an Angel of the Lord, this one might take the cake.

Second of all, what the hell? What was even happening here? These guys pretty much had the exact same relationship he had with Cas except for the one, kinda important part. How did that work? Book Cas would call, and then pop up in the backseat of the moving Impala and say something about demons, and even though they'd cracked tile in the bathroom the night before, Book Dean wouldn't even bother looking in the rear-view mirror. And not even in an awkward _Don'tLetSamKnowDon'tLetSamKnow ActCoolActCool_ kind of way. They were honest to God, friends who just—

“Oh, holy shit. Are they _fuck buddies_?”

Cas agreed with a hum, scrolling past some boring plot stuff. “Yes. I'm curious how Dean comes to realize he returns her feelings.”

“Her...What?”

Cas turned and stared at him.

What? It didn't say anything about that in the book. It mostly said she was a grumpy alien, imitating humans and being a weirdo. “Dude, she doesn't have feelings for him. Why would she? She could do way better.” Cas was just letting his inner romantic run away with him. Reading too much into it. Probably all the porn they were reading. They should take a break.

The Sams had already wandered off to geek out about the spell that would bind all the Castiels together and form Voltron. So apparently they were going to help with that instead of heading home. Though it didn't look like Cas was fully on board with the plan yet. He'd rather read smut about himself.

Dean's life, man.

Cas stared for another few seconds, then went back to the computer without a word, clearly conceding that Dean was right.

Chuck started fading to black on the sex. There was just too much of it. That bore repeating: there was too much sex for _Chuck_ to bother writing it down.

And this kept up, getting worse and worse, in book after book, until the very last scene of a mostly unchanged novel. When God announced that he didn't care.

 

_She turned her face to the ceiling, and at first they thought she was holding back tears._

“ _You son of a bitch,” she said, her prayer bitter and angry. “I believed in...” She waited. For an answer. For comfort. Her eyes scanned the water stains on the ceiling for a sign._

_None came._

_She looked away, and before she could say anything more or disappear, Dean had crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. She stood stiff against him as he soothed a hand up and down her spine, brushing his fingers through her hair. She dropped her face against his chest in defeat._

“ _It's pointless.”_

“ _It's not pointless.”_

“ _He doesn't care.”_

“ _So what? Screw Him. We care, Cas. That's enough.”_

_Sam padded forward, carefully placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder, offering comfort to an angel for the first time. “We'll find another way. We can stop all this.”_

_She shuddered, and Dean squeezed, holding her fast, never letting her go. “We care,” he repeated. “You're one of us now.”_

_Slowly, her arms came up around his waist, her fingers biting into his jacket, her form relaxing into a desperate cling. Despite his brother's presence, he pressed a kiss into her hair, smelling of mountains and storms._

_Over the top of her head, he made eye contact with his brother, who clung to his very last shreds of hope. Dean let his words sink in, stern and serious, forgiveness and apology which he could never voice directly._

“ _It's the three of us against the world.”_

 

Dean stared.

It didn't answer all the questions. But it answered enough. Enough to show that the real difference between their worlds wasn't Cas' vessel. It was that when push came to shove, they had banded together instead of pulling away, fraying their ties to each other with doubt and fear and petty grudges.

It was enough to leave Dean ashamed.

Cas must have finished reading before Dean, but he considered the words for a long, humbled moment before quietly closing the laptop. His voice lowered and eased, less weighted by the harsh skepticism he'd held since they came to this universe.

“We should see what Sam's learned.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Let's help these huggers.”


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later found Sam spread out on the floor of Bobby's study as his doppelganger shared all his research. He showed off the five old books from which they'd pieced the whole thing together; the bottles of ingredients they'd collected with colorful, disjointed stories about each one; a spiral bound notebook full of what was sort-of-almost a map of nearby realities (or as much as Sunshine could “sense” of them, which even other Sam couldn't really explain); and a handful of post-its in Dean's handwriting that made no sense to anyone. Sam was actually getting it enough to ask questions that got other Sam talking fast and excitedly flipping through one of the books to show him a scrambled passage in Greek.

Other Dean popped in with a plate of goldfish crackers and apple slices as “an after school snack for the study group.” He thought he was hilarious, but the joke was on him, because neither Sam was going to feel embarrassed about eating goldfish, and other Dean was the one who went through all the effort of coring a couple apples for the sake of a really dumb joke.

So yeah. Sam was too busy to go with Dean and Cas on their recruitment adventure. He didn't really want to hear them bicker for the rest of the day anyhow, and he'd spent the morning fighting his way into a prison, so there was that. Dean muttered about leaving Sam “unprotected” in a strange universe and promised to be back as soon as humanly possible.

Sam popped another apple slice (soft and grainy) into his mouth and talked around it. “Have fun.”

Dean's frown deepened, and he visibly held himself back from upending their snacks to send goldfish all over the floor before he and Cas disappeared.

After a while, they decided that when more angels started showing up, they were going to need a way to keep track of them all.

Well, no. They didn't. They could just take the bunch of angels that looked and acted mostly identically, tell them what to do for the spell to work, sort of listen to them mutter about it, and then have them grudgingly accept it and follow through. That would work just fine. It wasn't Sam's job to convince them, to figure out the specific way to approach each individual Castiel. That was up to Dean and Cas, and Sam couldn't decide if that was a brilliant idea because Dean could convince Cas to do all sorts of ridiculous, reckless things, or if it was the equivalent of shooting themselves in the foot by making the most stubborn, least trusting, most difficult one of them their ambassador to another universe.

So Sam didn't need to keep the angels straight or know anything about their universes of origin.

He just wanted to, and so did the other Sam.

They set to work on a detailed chart of the time lines on a poster sized sheet of tan butcher paper. With a couple of yard sticks they'd found in the basement, they marked off months at regular intervals, like a time table in a day planner, going from the present at the top of the chart to a few years ago at the bottom. Sam drew a straight line right down the center of the chart, and other Sam bent forward to label major events in his history before Sam's pencil had even finished moving. Other Sam put a dot on the line in mid-September 2008, labeled it “ _Cas gets a vessel_ ,” and drew a branch off of it from which Sam drew in the second time line with his yard stick, labeling them A and B at the top. Other Sam sketched in arrows at the hub of the branch, labeling one “Mary Ann” and then asking Cas' vessel's name before labeling the other “Jimmy.”

They sat back on their heels, looked down at their work so far, and grinned at each other. Organizing this kind of project with Bobby would end up with notes all over the place about all the things he wasn't so sure about. Dean (if he helped at all, which he wouldn't because he didn't do craft projects) would change tracks part of the way through (deciding circles were really a better representation than lines), only to change again in another hour (drawing arrows all over everything to connect similarities and exclamation points to denote differences), and then decide the whole thing was stupid and draw some stick people in the corner and then take a three hour break. His handwriting alone would make the whole thing look like a serial killer collage. But with other Sam, it was neat and orderly and systematic. They were on the same wave length, with the exact same strategy, exact same small handwriting written in the exact same .5 lead mechanical pencils.

Instead of writing lowercase vowels, they both wrote uppercase letters at half the size.

“You take Reality A,” Sam said. Dean would hate that and insist that if the other group was Reality A, then they were Reality 1 or Team Awesome or something. But they were going to have to deal with several realities in the next few days, and if any other Deans showed up they'd run out of synonyms for “best universe” pretty fast. Someone's ego had to take a back seat. “This whole thing is your Cas' idea, and we're using this as a home base, so you should be A.”

Other Sam shrugged. “Okay. I won't point it out to your brother.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”

Even Reality B seemed a bit too important to Sam. There were an infinite number of realities out there. Only of fraction of those (but still an infinite number) had Cas still alive after a failed apocalypse, and fighting a heavenly civil war against Raphael. In the grand scheme of things, Sam's life was probably more like Reality Q. Or Reality three hundred twenty-eight million, five hundred forty-nine thousand, seven hundred twelve. Being Sam B was more than he deserved.

It was a lot like being back in school when he'd enter a classroom and the teacher would designate him “Sam W.” because there was already some other kid named Sam, who would instantly dislike him.

Sam bent forward to start at the beginning, filling in events in their shared history before the branch, and from there it took about thirty seconds to find the flaw in their plans. Sam's pencil made a mark in May, then froze. Other Sam stilled, and Sam wondered if his counterpart's heart rate had spiked like his. Maybe their pulses beat in time, the same mix of guilt and horror and pity washing through their systems. Sam took a breath and numbly bracketed off a four month period.

“ _Dean in Hell”_

He looked at the other years laid out before them, the other awful things he would have to write, to admit to if they continued. Something like acid or poison cramped through his arms.

Other Sam took a deep breath. “Did you have the case at the haunted baseball field?”

Sam blinked. “The what?”

His counterpart groaned, a noise strained but aiming at levity. He bent forward and carefully started filling in points on his time line as he talked. “The worst case ever. Or, well, the worst case that didn't involve the end of the world. Or—okay, maybe not the _worst_ case, but it was bad.”

Sam didn't want to hear about the worst case ever. But other Sam had his jaw set like he had a plan, and was going to drag Sam through it. Sam needed to trust him, to let him to take care of them both, and gave in to the dim hope that this story didn't end with the monster being human or with emotional manipulation or betrayal. A heart beat and he gave in and leaned forward, buoyed and distracted enough to fill in his own dots. “ _Rising of the Witnesses- Sioux Falls_ ” “ _Rugaru- Carthage_ ”

“Back in the seventies, there was this explosion on a minor league baseball field in Arkansas. Killed eleven guys on the team, and we showed up because their ghosts were terrorizing people.”

“Baseball themed terrorizing?”

“So corny, you've no idea. Actually, no, you can probably guess. They weren't creative.”

“ _Alastair dies- Cheyenne”_

“So Dean gets this idea that he's going to salt and burn them all, while we distract them by challenging them to a _game_.”

Sam glanced up. “You played baseball against ghosts.”

“Me and Cas.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“How'd that go?”

Other Sam laughed, a bark of disparagement to cover a real—if self-deprecating—smile. “How do you think? I mean, I think I played T-ball with Bobby and Dean a few times. Right?”

“Yeah. A few times.” Bobby set up the T for Sam and pitched for Dean. He threw slow, underhanded pitches that Dean still missed half the time with wide, Hail-Mary swings. Sam insisted that it didn't count if they weren't all wearing hats, so Bobby had found a cap that smelled pleasantly of old sweat and then pinched the back of it between his fingers and set two staples in the fabric to make it small enough that it would fit Sam's head. Bobby let them win, and then Dean demanded some kind of victory dessert from the ice cream push cart on the edge of the park.

“ _Gouhl Adam- Windom_ ”

Bobby must have bought that T-ball set just for him.

“So I sucked,” Other Sam said. “But, just sucking like a normal person wasn't enough. You know? Because the universe hates me. So not only was I the least athletic person out there, but I was the only one on the field who couldn't teleport.”

Sam couldn't help but laugh, and couldn't help that it came out like a burst of hysteria.

“Yes! It was awful! And Cas kept glaring at me for messing up. Half way through the second inning, she kicked me off the pitcher's mound and had me be catcher while she covered all the other positions by herself.”

“I bet Dean loved that.”

“He wouldn't shut up! It would have been worse if he'd been there to see it, but then he would have had to play and he would have looked like a loser too.” He shook his head. “I think he knew it, and that's why he weaseled his way into checking out the graveyard.”

“Jerk.”

“I know, right? And then he didn't even burn the bones. We thought nine innings would be enough time, but digging up that many graves...It tuned out the team was just sticking around to win their game. Once they stomped all over me and Cas, they were done and moved on.”

Sam groaned.

“Yeah.”

“ _Lucifer Rises- Ilchester”_

“And the worst part is that Cas started doing all this baseball research and getting way too into it and came out knowing all these _statistics_ and telling us about trades. And anytime we rolled into a city where there was a major league game, she'd mention it in that fake it's-no-big-deal way of hers, and then stare at us pointedly until one of us would give in and say, 'Oh hey, Cas, if we get done with this soucouyant by seven, want to go check out Minute Maid Park?'”

Sam laughed, all the muscles in his back pulled so tight he thought he might snap. “ _War- River Pass_ ” “Did you do the bowling alley lightning case?” Other Sam shook his head. “Right, so a few weeks ago, there was this town outside St. Paul, where three different guys were struck by lightning and killed within a week and a half. And it turns out they were all on the same bowling team, and there's only this one guy, Sven, left from their team, and we figure he's the next target. And then Cas shows up to say it's probably another one of the weapons he's after and it's important that we take it seriously. So Dean decides it'd be a good idea to fill in for the dead guys on Sven's bowling team because it's probably someone on a rival team, and he drags me and Cas into it, and he signs us up, and somewhere he finds these matching bowling shirts and demands we all wear them, because that's how seriously he's taking it. And then lightning guy decides he's going to go after Dean instead of Sven, because Dean's way more annoying, and they end up in this wrestling match in the parking lot, fighting over this bowling ball sized nuke from heaven that brings down lightning when you get pissed and kinda squeeze and shake it. So they're both grabbing for it and pissed at each other and pulling at it, and BAM. Struck by lightning. And Dean's all wheezing and charred, and the other guy isn't doing much better, and Cas thinks they're both idiots and heals them up and takes his angel bowling ball and leaves.”

Other Sam chuckled, then stopped writing enough to hold out his arm to show a burn mark across the inside of his forearm. “You probably don't have this. That's from teaching Rachel to make pancakes.”

“Rachel?”

“One of Cas' lieutenants. Cas thought it'd do her good to do some human things, get an appreciation for it—so she'd stop being so suspicious of Dean all the time, I think—so I showed her how to make pancakes, because everyone loves pancakes, right? But then the skillet beeped or something, and she freaked out and, like, flipped the whole thing over and it got me.”

Sam had a three inch gash on his calf he could show off, but he didn't have any idea how he'd gotten it, and that would bring this conversation back into the realm of depressing.

Maybe other Sam knew it and rolled right into another story. “Did you have the flower fiasco?”

“Flower fiasco?” “ _Famine- Cottage Grove_ ”

“So there was this witness in Wichita. She was this florist whose brother had gone missing. We thought we'd just go in and talk to her, and—neither one of us know how—but she talked us into buying like eight dozen of these flowers that it turns out Dean's allergic to. And we didn't know how to get rid of them because any time we offered them to anyone, they gave us this look like 'Who are you? Why are you giving me eight dozen flowers?' Dean kept getting slapped. They were all stuffed in the back seat, and the whole time we're in town, everybody's asking us what the deal is with the flowers and no one buys that we're with the FBI. And then it turns out Panswé Belu don't usually try to eat you, but they will if you smell like flowers, so it tries to eat us. And when we finally get out of town, Dean pulls over on this bridge and chunks all these flowers into the river. And I'm trying to get him to calm down, and he's sneezing and tearing up and swearing and throwing these flowers, and there's...just...so much snot involved. And this highway patrolman rolls up. And he doesn't know what to do about it, but Dean's got all this blood on him from the belu and snot all over himself and flower petals everywhere and he's stopped on the middle of a bridge, throwing things in the water. So he gets arrested and I had to find a way to throw out the rest of the flowers properly and vacuum the car and buy some Benadryl before I could bail him out.”

“You're just jealous you've never been arrested for littering.” They looked up to see Dean (Dean A) leaning against the door frame.

Other Sam rolled his eyes and went back to his time line. “Littering and parking in a no-parking zone.”

“That doesn't count. I had the flashers on.”

“Dude. I don't think the Impala even has flashers.”

“Sure she does. She's got all sorts of hidden talents.”

Other Sam's voice turned challenging. “Then how _do_ you turn them on? Where's the button, Dean?”

Dean gestured, indicating an imaginary dashboard. “On...by the radio.”

“The radio?”

“Yeah. You know. Like. There.” Another hand gesture. “We need to take you back to driver's ed, Sammy?”

Sam tuned out their bickering. It was way easier to do than when he was a participant.

“ _Apocalypse ends—Lawrence_ ”

It hurt to write. It actually hurt. In his chest. But the other Sam had done it, owning and accepting the events of his past without any whining or avoiding or guilty crying.

But once he wrote it, all his forward momentum slammed to a stop, like he'd hit a wall, suddenly exhausted. Because now he'd reached the span of time that he only knew about second hand. He paused, looking up to see other Sam scrawling in hunt after hunt down the line as he bickered with his brother. “ _Barista Witches-Scranton_ ” “ _Smoke Monster-Annapolis_ ” “ _Haunted Rollercoaster-Coney Island_ ” Then he shifted, scooting further down the line, the shadow of his knee moving to uncover a bracketed section.

“ _Sam is Soulless_ ”

It spanned less than two months.

Sam stared. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He was just...

Two months.

“Heeeey.”

He jumped, looking up to see Dean A peering over their work with a grin. “We're Team A. Awesome.”

Other Sam ignored him. “Did we get that poltergeist in Corpus Christie before or after the werewolf in Norman?”

“Who cares?”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch. What's going on there?” He pointed at Sam's line, an achingly familiar big-brother-teasing-smirk locked in place. “You wear yourself out already? Chop, chop, Sam! Gotta get your science fair project ready for the judges.”

“Oh. I just...” He scratched his neck, trying to control the heat in his face.

Other Sam looked up at him, interest piqued.

Two months. No wonder the guy was so carefree.

“I...” He cleared his throat. “I only know a few pieces. I'll have to ask Cas about dates.” Cas. Not Dean.

The look on their faces changed to mild confusion, and just to break eye contact he wrote what he did know.

The line he drew just kept going. And going. And going. He bracketed off a year and a half, then went back to the bottom and labeled it with other Sam's phrasing.

“ _Sam is Soulless_ ”

No one moved. They stared at his bracket the same way he'd stared at other Sam's a moment before.

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean breathed.

Sam looked up to see his counterpart's shocked expression, and Dean's look of horror turning slowly but surely into fury.

Sam winced as Dean exploded. “ _A year and a half_?! What the _fuck_?! Cas!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Get down here. Something's wrong with your evil twin. A year and a half!”

“Dean,” other Sam pleaded, cringing and giving Sam a pitying look.

He swallowed. “It's alright.” But it wasn't. “I'm fine now.” And that wasn't true either. His ears were ringing. A stuffy buzz built in his head. He squeezed his pencil to make his hands stop shaking.

He bent back over the chart, determined to fill in as much of his history as he could. Look less weak. Feel less weak. He filled in the bits Cas had told him, trying to make the labels sound not horrible, guessing at dates.

Other Dean snapped, “What are you doing?” then dove forward and snatched the pencil out of his hand, slapping him upside the head. “Don't scratch the wall, dumbass.”

“God, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes, forgetting for a split second that this wasn't his brother.

“Shut up.” Dean shouted again, “Cas!”

“What?” Sunshine frowned as she slipped into the room, looking just as grumpy to be summoned as Cas ever was.

“Look at this.” Dean pointed.

Sunshine's eyes rolled over the chart. But instead of taking part in their communal freak out, her face cleared, and she leaned forward in interest, looking almost impressed. “It hadn't occurred to me to look into our histories this throughly. This will be extremely helpful.” She nodded to each of them in turn. “Well done, Sam. Sam.”

Dean groaned.

Her eyebrows rose and she turned to him to explain, “This is an unusual opportunity. You could find new allies. Or share new hunting techniques. Maybe we can learn about Raphael's plans from his actions in the other realities.”

“Yeah, okay, great,” Dean said. “We can compare notes later. But right now, we've got bigger problems.”

“Like what?”

“Like Sam being soulless for a year and a half?” He pointed at Sam like being soulless meant he had chicken pox on his face. He felt himself flush.

Sunshine blinked at him, looking for the chicken pox, before turning back to Dean. “What about it?”

“...You knew about this?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what the hell is your alter ego doing, letting this happen?”

Sam spoke up, “It wasn't Cas' fault. It's not like there was anything he could do about it.”

Dean looked more exasperated than ever. “So the guy goes to hell, spends five years there fighting his way to the cage, confronts Lucifer again, drags you out, then just lets you loose to walk around like a sociopath?”

What? “Cas didn't get me out of the cage.”

“He...what?”

“We don't know how I got out. It's a mystery.”

“A mystery,” Dean repeated, like this was the most confusing thing he'd ever heard. Sunshine pressed her lips together and frowned with that same look Cas often got when he had a whole lot he could say, but there was no way he'd ever let any of it out. Other Sam's forehead had wrinkled beyond reason in his concern, and—crap, was that his “bitch face”? Yeah, that was not a good face.

“Your Cas didn't rescue you from hell?” Dean said, trying to get this straight. He shook his head. “That's even worse.”

“I didn't think it was something he could do.”

“Why not? He got fake Dean out...He did do that much, right?”

“Yeah, but that was—like—regular hell?” He winced. “But I was in the cage. Which makes it harder?”

Dean jerked his head towards Sunshine. “She managed it. Why couldn't yours?”

He didn't know what to do with that. “I guess it didn't occur to him. We're not really that close, and he didn't have enough down time to mount a rescue mission. With the war and everything.”

It was rare to see Dean completely speechless, but his head's impending implosion apparently did the trick.

“Let it go,” other Sam said. “It's not like he's soulless now. Everything's okay and they got it fixed just like we did. With Death, right?” He smiled at Sam, or at least tried to, knowing that his words weren't entirely true, but the sentiment and the empathy were the important part.

Dean shook his head and frowned at Sam, “I'm not saying it's your fault. I saying I don't trust your angel. He sounds like a fuck up and he's creepy.”

Sunshine huffed. “He's not creepy.”

“Come on. With the trench coat and the staring? Who does that?”

“The same person who never takes off her rain coat?” other Sam offered, nodding at where Dean had absently hooked a finger through a belt loop on Sunshine's coat.

He dropped his hand when he noticed. “Shut up.”

Sunshine didn't react, her attention back on the chart and her tone musing. “Theirs is a solitary universe. They all want to handle their problems on their own.”

Dean snorted. “And how's that working out?”

With Sam grappling in the dark. With Cas stressed and bitter, and Dean stressed and desperate to hide the deep fractures through his heart. With a heaviness settled over everything. With their lives poised in suspense, waiting for the last shoe to drop before they riped apart completely.

That last straw would be him. He knew it. He could feel it coming. He wouldn't want it to happen, and he wouldn't be able to control it, and he probably wouldn't even see it coming as it snuck out of the shadows of the last year and a half, but it would emanate from him. It would be his fault. And it would destroy their lives completely.

“I don't trust him,” Dean repeated. “Something's off.”


	6. Chapter 6

Turned out that girl Cas wasn't such a shitty flier after all. Traveling between universes just sucked no matter what.

Knowing it was coming made it slightly better, and Cas did make an effort to keep Dean upright when they landed. A calm spread from the hand on his arm, seeping through his shoulders and into his stomach, turning it right-side-out again, easing the cramping muscles. He felt clammy and tensed, and he had to blink about a dozen times before his eyes uncrossed and all the blurriness faded. He wasn't tearing up, it's just that he was dragged from one dimension to another and not all of his molecules fit together, that's all.

Cas looked sympathetic in a way that made Dean push himself up straight, pull away, and slap the guy on the shoulder. “Alright. I'm good. Where are we?”

They stood in tall, crunchy grass, row after row of sunflowers spread before them and a pale blue sky draped overhead. The air sat warm and tanggy in the afternoon heat.

“You should rest,” Cas said.

“I'm fine. The faster we get this done, right?”

Cas frowned. He was the least enthusiastic helper ever. Like despite their subtext heart-to-heart (the best kind of heart-to-heart) and their silent agreement to hang out more, Cas still wasn't entirely convinced that dragging Dean around the multi-verse was the best plan. Given how little Dean cared for having all his intestines removed, then shoved back into his body, Dean was starting to see where he was coming from.

“Where's your friend?” he asked.

Cas squinted into the distance. “New Jersey.”

This did not look like New Jersey. “Okay?...And where are we?”

“Nebraska.”

Well, obviously. “And you thought, 'Hey, since we're in the neighborhood, I'll show off and take Dean out somewhere nice. Show him a good time.'”

Cas turned his squint on him.

Dean elbowed him in the side and quirked a grin. “You brought me flowers, you big softie. That other universe is giving you ideas.”

Cas shook his head slowly. “I don't understand. This isn't bringing you flowers. You can't keep them.”

“Yeah. I know that.”

“If I picked one for you, I don't know what you'd do with it while we speak to Castiel. You'd have to hold it and they're large. That would be awkward.”

“Dude, no. It's just that it's kinda like a date, so I was making fun of you.”

Cas sank into a kind of gloomy pout and turned away grumbling, “It's not a very good date.”

That was most definitely true.

“If I wanted to impress you,” Cas said, “I would bring you to Pasticceria Marchesi in Milan.”

“What?”

“It's a bakery. I think you would enjoy it.”

“Oh...Well. Yeah, we should check that out...Not so you can get in my pants tho.”

“Of course.”

“Just to go there.”

Cas nodded, looking back in the direction of New Jersey. “We're here because I thought you might appreciate stopping somewhere peaceful to gather yourself.”

Dean snorted.

“Also, I can't tell where Castiel is in a specific universe unless I'm inside it too. I thought we might as well pause here before meeting him. But you seem to be feeling better now. Are you ready?”

“Do we have a plan about convincing him?”

Cas sounded as grumpy and put-upon as Sam when Dad would force him to do something distasteful like oxy-clean blood out of his shirt or put away his book. “We're supposed to be polite.”

Dean barked a laugh. “This should be easy then.”

Cas hated everything.

He pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead and zapped them to New Jersey.

 

***

 

They popped up in a forest of spindly trees that cast long, dull shadows. The quiet settled on his shoulders, and a smell scraped at him and danced away before he could place it. Cas tensed at his side, and the hair rose on his arms because something here was _wrong wrong wrong_.

Before he could figure it out, Cas vanished, zapping twenty feet away to slam down his sword with a burst of black goop and a yelping howl that froze every drop of blood in Dean's body. Cas flipped the grip on his sword and slashed. With another shower of blood, the growling and whimpering and thrashing died, and something invisible thumped to the ground, disrupting dead leaves and flattening the dirt.

Dean hissed a curse, that came out so stringy he surprised himself.

“Hell hound,” Cas said, jerking his sword out of the thing's carcass. Like labeling it was even remotely necessary. Fuck.

Fuck.

_Growls, hot and damp next to his ear, painful against his eardrum. His eyes squeezed closed, because if he moved, if he freaked, if he twitched it'd snap. That catch in the snarl just before it chomped down on his face, on his neck. The heat of hell, the heat of hell, and it'd be back tomorrow, claws ripping through the flesh of his chest, catching on his ribs._

He tried to wrestle his heart rate back under control, his hands clammy on his gun. He'd picked up a sweat in the Nebraska heat, and now it stuck cold to his skin. “I hate hell hounds.” His voice didn't come out any manlier than it had before.

“There are more.”

“Awesome. Just awesome.”

Dean tried not to look at the dead hell hound as Cas led him off, but found it hard to tear his eyes away. Cas set a brisk pace, sure of himself even though the direction looked completely random. It only took a minute to hear the sounds of shouts and snarls, a moment later the fight came into view through the trees.

Girl Cas twisted, slashing at the air with her blade, ducking and dodging. It looked like a dance except for the growls and the splatters of black blood that burst from nowhere to spray across her gray pea coat. Not the blue raincoat. She'd found her vessel at a different time. In the dead of winter. All bland colors like the forest. She lost ground, giving up an advance to duck back and take on what might be a second or third hell hound, trying to keep them back from—

—from Sam. Who was watching girl Cas with his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, a shotgun at the ready and pointing at thin air.

“There are four,” Cas said. “Stay here.” And then he was off, darting into what might be the middle of the fray, and might not. Who knew.

It might have looked stupid, them slashing at nothing, but their every move was determined, strategic, and the heavy presence of hell hounds—fucking hell hounds—kept the fight so painfully real. Cas and girl Cas fit together without comment, without even a backwards glance or a tilted head. Warriors of God doing what they did best while Dean stood helpless and practically vibrating with strain.

Cas jerked to the side. Rolling. Pinned under something huge. Dean took a jerking step forward, but girl Cas was there, gutting the thing and saving Cas before spinning to block another damned dog, while Cas pointed and shouted, “Dean, there.”

One had gotten past them, heading towards Sam, the leaves flickering under its feet as it ran. And Dean was running, circling the main fight and bolting for the monster, shooting twice before it yelped and stumbled, and then leaping to tackle the stupid thing like a complete moron.

And then snarling and wrestling, clumsy stabbing when he dropped his gun and digging his fingernails into putrid dog hair, grappling to avoid claws and teeth as the thing rolled and squirmed, his eyes squeezed tight. Stabbing and the smell and stabbing and the blood.

Something grabbed his shoulder, and he jerked, snapping up to face Cas and his calm face.

“It's dead.”

Oh. He looked down, not that he could see anything but stillness and a growing pool of oily blood. He was breathing way too hard, and forced it to stop with a swallow.

Okay. He got it. No more hell hounds. Time to be polite. And charming.

Right.

“Dean?”

He straightened up and wiped dog blood from his forehead with the back of his hand, shooting Sam a half-assed, winded smile. “Sorta. It's a long story, but—”

Sam looked devastated. Horrified. Dean barely got to frown and think to ask, “You alright?” before Sam's face twisted and he was flying, knife drawn, eyes blazing, ready to slash and tackle and bite and oh shit.

Two fingers to the forehead, and Sam collapsed in a big floppy pile with Cas standing over him.

Dean gaped. So not ready to process this.

Then girl Cas was there, sword at Cas' throat, only held off by his hand on her wrist as they shoved against each other. And—Cas had his sword out too. Aimed up to slide under her ribs. Held still only by her hand on his forearm, and hopefully Cas' better judgment.

“Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa. Time out!”

“No one touches Sam,” girl Cas growled.

Cas grimaced and adjusted his grip, trying to shove her away and utterly failing.

“Okay. Yes. We agree on that,” Dean said. He wanted to get between the wrestling angels, but even he could recognize that that was impossible and the worst idea he'd ever had, so he mostly just ended up hovering beside them, his hands in the air, not quite touching either of them. “He's fine. Look. He's just sleeping. Right, Cas? He's just sleeping?”

Cas didn't answer, both the angels' feet slipping against the dirt. Dean took that as agreement.

“We're just here to talk. Cas, we're here to talk. Remember? Put the sword down, man. If you kill yourself, we have to go back and explain that to everyone. So quit being stab happy and put the swords _down_.”

Dean held his breath through the beat of poised silence, through the suspended moment of angels glaring and swords quivering. Then they broke apart. Swords still in hand and postures still tensed, but calmed enough for Dean to breathe again.

“Good. Okay.” He rubbed at his temple and the headache building behind his eyes. His fingers came away bloody. “We've got a proposal. To help with the war in heaven. We can help each other. See, we're from an alternate universe.”

“I gathered that,” she said.

“Right. Of course you did. Well, we're trying to get a few Castiels from different universes together to take on Raphael. Team up. Make a little army.”

“Why were the hell hounds after you?” Cas asked, because things like staying on topic weren't all that important when you were actually ancient-ass, sentient light particles pretending to be a dude.

“There's a demon named Crowley,” she said. “He offered me a deal and when I turned him down he thought threats and intimidation would change my mind. Why does Sam want to kill you?”

“How should I know?” Dean said. “I'm not from around here. He and I fighting in this universe or something?”

“Not that I know of, but there are a lot of people who want to harm him. I've hardly met them all.”

“You..."  His heart stuttered until it felt like he'd been punched.  "...Haven't met me.”

“No.” Her eyes darted to Cas and back, her head tilting as she considered them. “That upsets you.” Her posture sagged, her face softening until she looked like Sunshine again instead of a wet cat. The sword disappeared from her hand.

Cas explained, “I raised him from hell.”

“I raised the Righteous Man from hell.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah. That's me. I'm the Righteous Man.”

She shook her head with a twitch. “John Winchester is the Righteous Man.”

His dad.

The blood drained from Dean's face.

His dad broke. He broke the first seal. He was Michael's vessel. And Dean didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. He always knew he was plan B, so it really shouldn't have been that surprising.

Some recognition sparked in her eyes. “You're Dean Winchester.” At Dean's jerky nod she continued. “That's why Sam wanted to kill you. He assumed you were a monster impersonating his brother. In our reality, you sold your soul to a cross roads demon to save him. You've been dead for three years.”

And he was still down there. No one came to get him.

“Dean.”

He ran a hand over his face, scraping it through his hair. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat again, that hollow feeling that came with terror and emotional whip lash clawing at his chest. He pulled himself together to smirk at Cas, and his stupid, pitying face. “Looks like our universe isn't the worst after all.”

“Dean,” he chided.

“What?”

Cas frowned.

“Hey, whatever. They're free to suck as much as they want. I'm not gonna judge.” He wasn't going to dig either. He didn't want to know how Sam coped without him. How he weathered the apocalypse and being soulless and having dad alive and on his case again. If he and dad hunted together, or where the man was now. Why girl Cas was so overprotective.

Shit, were they sleeping together? Nope. Didn't want to know.

“You said you have a plan to defeat Raphael,” girl Cas said. She didn't look impressed, but she did look interested.

So Dean shoved everything down into his toes and focused on the plan and gave the pitch that he hadn't (seriously. Shut up) been planning in his head. She only half bought it, but Cas had only half bought it too, and their solidarity in skepticism was actually part of his pitch. Also part of his pitch were hints that Sunshine might have her shit together enough that her hair-brained scheme might actually be the least stupid idea any Castiel has ever had. Not that it wasn't stupid. Just the least stupid.

For example. This stab-happy Cas had a plan that involved making (from scratch) a cage for Raphael. With seals and everything. The seals sounded like some kind of wild scavenger hunt. She preened as she told him her favorite so far, which was something about renewable, clean energy instead of extinguishing orphans. Honestly, she and Sam must be a force to be reckoned with. They probably had a compost pie and went to marches. The details of her plan got hazy after the construction phase, but it sounded familiar aside from the fact that they didn't have Raphael's vessel to offer himself (herself?) up to jump in the pit, so they would have to trip him and hope he fell into their trap.

Seriously. Coming up with off the wall plans must be a universal character trait of all Castiels along with the head tilt and the staring. Following through on a plan, they could do, but coming up with one? They were new at that. And so they took whatever idea they had and ran with it until they ended up in crazy town with ideas like “find God” and “Molotov cocktail an archangel” and “with our powers combined we can call Captain Planet.”

Dean was fucking exhausted, and they still had four more angels to track down, with four more realities full of mind-fucks. He could tell girl Cas was in, but she felt like being stubborn and grumpy and autonomous, so she phrased it like she might possibly be interested but she'd need to check it out first. And then Cas gave her directions by staring at her for way too long, which still kinda pissed Dean off, even though he wasn't sure why.

She couldn't leave without one more argument though. Because that's how things work. And they had to bicker for a bit over whether or not she'd take Sam with her.

Cas—of course, the prick—thought that it'd endanger Sam or at least traumatize him when he woke up surrounded by clones of himself and a couple versions of his dead brother. Plus Bobby already had about all the company he could stand. And the trip across universes wasn't very pleasant. Which were all pretty valid excuses except for the fact that Dean was one hundred percent done with Cas' “the Winchesters are delicate damsels that I have to protect by locking them in a prissy tower and keeping them out of the loop” shtick.

Girl Cas flat out refused to leave Sam, because who knew what kind of trouble he'd get into without a babysitter, and Crowley might come after him again, and she couldn't just leave him unconscious in the forest.

Cas seemed to think the forest was a perfectly fine place for a nap, at which point Dean lost his patience.

“Shut up, Cas. She can bring Sam McStabby along if she wants.” He glared over at Cas, who realized he was doing it again and looked away like the guilty son of a bitch he was. Yeah. Suck it. Cas _should_ feel bad. After their unspoken agreement and everything.

Dean turned to girl Cas. “Just tell him what's up before he shanks anyone.”

She nodded, bent to pluck up Sam's limp hand, and vanished. In the silence left behind, Dean's shoulders slumped in exhaustion and relief.

One down.

 

***

 

They landed in the next universe in Evanston, Illinois. Dean's feet sunk into the sand on a tiny, man made beach between two breakers, and he sunk to the ground to press his forehead to his knees and cover his head with his arms, taking deep, hissing breaths between his teeth to hold back the nausea. He probably looked pathetic and sweaty, but he didn't give a shit. His eyes were about to explode from the changes in pressure and leave ooze trails down his face. His heart was about to come up out of his mouth and then there'd be a heart plopped in the sand, beating once, twice, before he blacked out.

He was going to die in a Chicago suburb. Awesome.

He squeezed his eyes closed and breathed, focusing every last ounce of his waning energy on not letting that happen.

With evening coming, the sky had dimmed through the gray blankets of cloud cover. The wind off Lake Michigan nipped at his fingers and the back of his neck, exposed from the collar of his jacket as he curled in on himself, chilly and bracing against his anxious sweat. Unlike the sunflower field, this place wasn't abandoned. Just behind them, he could hear cars on the street, see houses just outside the roped off bounds of the beach. But it was late and chilly and they were alone.

Cas took a seat next to him, and once Dean felt less like a sick mess and more like an angry mess, he turned his head to the side to watch him. Cas clasped his own wrist and propped his forearms on his bent knees, staring out at the choppy water, watching the birds.

“We'll return to Sam after this and rest for the night.”

Dean nodded. He should probably say something flippant about how he could go all night, or how Sam was a big boy and could tuck himself in, or how maybe Sunshine would change her mind about this plan once she realized what sorry examples she had to work with. Instead he said, “Sounds like a plan.”

They sat in silence, listening to the birds and the cars and Dean's relaxing pulse until he could uncurl and lean back on his palms. “You know, some forewarning about what we're gonna see here would be great. Like if Sam's grown a mustache or married Ruby or been hybridized into a lizard-man. Or if my dad's the president or the king of hell or the God-damned messiah. Or—I know—if I'm _dead_. Those are shockers, Cas. Shit like that doesn't help the communication process.”

Cas sighed, that woe-is-me I-just-wanted-to-protect-you attitude shifting back into place. “I'm sorry this is so disturbing for you.”

“You bet it's disturbing! Do you have any idea what I—what fake Dean is doing in hell right now?”

Cas stared at him. And suddenly Dean's anger drained.

Yes. Cas knew.

Another beat and Cas turned back to the lake. “I can't tell what's different from here. I can sense the angels, so I can sense the war. I can't sense you or your brother, probably because you're both hidden from angels, like you are in our own reality. But once I see Castiel, I can see parts of her life written in her grace.”

“Really?”

He tilted his head in concession. “Sort of.”

“Must be hard to keep secrets from each other. If everything you're up to is written on your forehead.” He scooped up a handful of sand, letting the grains slip between his fingers. “No wonder you can't lie to save your life.”

Cas didn't answer for a moment. Probably embarrassed. All the other angels knew about the whoopee cushion thing and how much tequila he could put away.

“It's more that I know my own scars. I can tell that... _girl Cas_ doesn't have some that I do. The Castiel we just met, she's missing some too, but has others. I don't know exactly what happened to give her those marks, but I can guess.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a teasing smile. “I could tell right away that she hadn't met _you_.”

“I'm sure you can get my smell out of your wings with a heavy dose of Lysol.”

“No, I couldn't.”

He didn't know what to do with the level of certainty in Cas' voice besides make a self-deprecating joke. “Sorry. Guess you'll smell like guilt and bad decisions forever.”

“Yes,” Cas said, in a soft murmur. “That's most likely.”

Without even a quip to say to that, he stared at Cas as outrage and hurt and the guilt he'd already mentioned crawled up his throat.

But then Cas turned to meet his eyes with a completely out of place smile. Sad and fond and familiar. “I'm glad you're the Righteous Man.”

Dean blinked, then scoffed. “Come on, man. We're not doing this.”

Cas accepted that, or he'd already said enough. He turned back to the water with that stupid, little smile still on his face.

 

***

 

This Castiel was in Sioux Falls, which lowered the chances that they'd have to fight monsters, but raised the chance that they'd have to talk to someone who'd question his life choices. But who knew, really. Maybe a car monster had taken over the salvage yard. Maybe this Cas just liked hanging out with Bobby. Maybe this Cas had turned into a car monster and Bobby was the only one who could keep his road rage in check.

The salvage yard looked like it always did. Quiet, but not spooky quiet. Hot, but getting cooler every minute. Some of the same clunkers from his own universe and some from Sunshine's sat around on blocks. The Impala wasn't around, which didn't bode well (or did it?), and the house itself had an extension on the side. Like Bobby had expanded his library, or built himself a torture chamber, or manufactured an aquarium because Sam had turned into a mermaid.

“Hey,” Dean grabbed Cas' sleeve and pulled him to a halt just shy of the steps. “Is there a way you can give him a heads up we're here before we knock on the door and someone tries to stab us?”

“He knows we're here.”

Okay, that was creepy.

Cas stared at him, impatient.

“Can you spidey sense his grace from here? Give us an idea what we're dealing with.”

Although he clearly thought it was a waste of time, Cas looked towards the house and squinted. “It's...placid.”

“Placid.”

“That's the only way I can explain it. And it's boy Cas this time.”

God, Cas was hopeless. “You mean he's a dude.”

“His vessel is Jimmy Novak.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Cas offered up no further information, waiting for Dean to get on with it. Was he supposed to play twenty questions?

Dean narrowed his eyes. “He's sleeping with Dean, isn't he?”

“Not right this second. We're not interrupting. It would be alright to knock.”

Completely hopeless. Dean let his chin fall to his chest. “I guess that means I'm alive.”

“Yes. We should knock.”

“Alright. Fine. Keep your pants on.” Dean jogged up the steps, which creaked and thumped in a familiar tune under his weight. “We need to work on your reports,” he muttered, rapping a rhythm against the door. “Because your idea of important points and my idea of important points are very different things.”

Cas slumped one of his shoulders as he shuffled his feet. Like of course they had different priorities and Dean's were stupid.

There were footsteps on the other side of the door, someone peering through the peep hole. The deadbolts clicked open one after another as Dean threw on his charming smile.

Instead of Bobby or himself or Cas (who knew they were coming), a cute blonde answered the door, wearing a ratty gray hoodie and cut-offs. The memory of her face pulled at Dean's memory, but he couldn't place it. Maybe she was a hunter he'd met briefly, or a local, who'd just sweet-talked Bobby into fixing up her Nissan. Maybe she was one of Cas' angel friends.

Her fond eye roll and the pop of her hip immediately scratched off the possibility of her being an angel.

“Really, Dean? Knocking? This must be an epic apology you have planned.”

“Uh.”

This was apparently about as much of an apology as she'd expected, and her attention shifted to Cas. “I didn't even know you'd left. He's only been gone ten minutes. That's not nearly enough time for him to stew in his own juices before you drag him back.”

“Actually,” Dean said, “we're—“

“It's called 'letting him sweat it out.'” She winked, ignoring Dean in favor of Cas, sharing what could only be _relationship advice_ (oh, fuck his life) like the guy should be taking notes and calling her sensei. “Don't worry. We'll work on it.”

Dean cranked his winning smile up to eleven. “Okay, funny story—“

Cas cut him off, and he had that voice like he was trying to be approachable, but the words that came out of his mouth ruined what little effect he was getting. “We need to speak to Castiel.”

There were surely a lot of ways to broach this topic, and maybe one of them was gentle and not frightening, and maybe if given enough practice they'd even find it and perfect it. But clearly that magical phrasing wasn't something the two of them were going to find on this particular adventure.

The smile slid off the girl's face, her eyebrows pinching together in confusion. Her lips parted in question, when a form stepped up behind her, nudging her gently to the side. Castiel. Tan trench coat and blue tie, with that same look of awe and curiosity that graced Cas' face the first time he set eyes on Sunshine.

The girl jumped, her head snapping back and forth between them, her jaw dropping, then snapping shut. Then Dean got hit square in the face with holy water. He spluttered, blinking drips out of his eyes just in time to see her grab a knife and launch herself forward. Just in time to see Cas sidestep, and the blade sink into his chest.

She blinked at her hand, then up at Cas, who just frowned down at the hilt like he'd spilled coffee on himself. She jerked away as he reached up for the knife, gripped it tight, and pulled it out. There wasn't any blood.

The other Castiel took hold of the girl's shoulder, guiding her back (but where was he a split second ago?) “They're from an alternate reality. They're not monsters.” He and Cas stared at each other before he continued, “They're friends.” It sounded mostly like he was trying to soothe the girl, or just voicing whatever decision he'd come to after he and Cas had their telepathy thing, but a threat lay somewhere under there.

They _better_ be friends.

The girl's voice twinged. “Alternate universe?”

Handing back the knife, handle first, Cas said, “We just want to talk.”

She took the knife with shaking hands and swallowed.

Dean wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. Okay. So. Someone trying to stab him was just going to be a thing. Not all that surprising. “Okay. Now that we've got that settled?” She shot a pointed look at the girl, then at Cas and fake Cas. Yeah. All settled. “Let's try this again.” He held out his hand. “Dean Winchester. And this is Cas. Nice to meetchya.”

She looked at his hand like she'd never seen one before, then cocked an eyebrow when she looked back up at his face, a bit of curiosity slipping into her expression. “Winchester. Huh.” She pocketed her knife and shook his hand. “Jessica Singer. And this is Cas too.”

It hit him like a train.

 _Jess_.

Shit.

His face must have fallen completely, because she shifted uncomfortably and snapped a look at fake Cas for reassurance.

Dean cleared his throat, and barely managed to pull it together enough for a nod and a strained smile at fake Cas. Then his eyes were back on Jess, committing her to memory. Her hair was shorter, her face more tan. She had a scar on the side of her neck and one that cut through her eyebrow. She knew about hunting and hung out in Sioux Falls and paled around with an angel.

“Singer,” he said. “So that makes you Bobby's...” _Please don't say something messed up. Please don't say something messed up._

“Daughter-in-law.”

“ _Daughter-in-law_?”

“Yeah.” She managed a smile, something desperately trying to be polite, desperately trying not to panic. “Your universe sounds bizarre.”

“You should have seen the last one we were in.”

He darted a look over at Cas to find him and his mirror image staring at them.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head in encouragement for Cas to...you know...break the tension by talking. Saying something. Anything.

The angels' heads listed to the side. Both of them. At the same time.

“Shit, that's creepy.”

A startled laugh burst out of Jess.

And that did the trick. He rolled his eyes and shared a commiserating look with her. Can you believe these guys? Can't take them anywhere.

“Come on, Cas. Staring time's over. Time to show the recruitment video so we can get out of here.”

“That's your job.”

“I did the last one. I'm tired now.” Plus, it looked like he'd already won over fake Cas, just by showing up and being his awesome self and not putting Jess in a choke hold.

The beginnings of a sulk started on Cas' face, and Dean had to nip that in the butt. “And don't even think about fucking it up just to prove a point.”

Cas muttered something in one of the billion languages Dean didn't know. Fake Cas smirked, and muttered something back. Probably, “Dean's such an ass-foot,” and “He'll hate it if we talk about him behind his back. We should do that.”

Jess laughed again and nudged him towards the steps, her posture finally relaxed. “Can I get you some tea? Or a beer?”

“I'm good.”

She plopped down on the top step, flipping back the stretched cuffs of her sleeves in a nervous gesture and extending miles of bare leg down the steps. “So,” she looked back over her shoulder at the angels, now in deep, mumbled discussion about their mutual dislike for Dean. “Visitors from another dimension, huh? What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

He eased himself down onto the step beside her. “Well, you know how two heads are better than one? They've decided that enough Castiels to fill an SUV are better than one, and probably pack enough horse power to take on Raphael.”

Her eyes sparked with interest. “Will that work?”

“Hey, Sam's the one with all the details. I'm just in charge of recruitment. So...yes!” He grinned. “Of course. Nothing can go wrong.”

She laughed.

And then the silence fell, and Dean found himself staring again. The nail polish on her toes was blue with little stars.

What do you say to your brother's dead girlfriend? A girlfriend who's hopefully married to a version of your brother, who changed his name to give your dad the finger. And that was a weird thing to hope for.

“So...” He grabbed at a line of questioning and hoped he wasn't too obvious. “How long've you been hitched?”

“Almost a year,"she said.  "Shotgun wedding, you know. During the apocalypse.”

Did she help during the apocalypse? Ride shotgun to give directions and eat at diners and sleep in awful motel rooms? Aim a double barrel at ghosts and witches and demons. Watch Sam drink blood and break the last seal and say yes to Lucifer?

Instead, he asked, “Vegas?”

“Niagara Falls."

“Classy.”

“I know, right? We—hold on.” She scrambled up and disappeared into the house, popping back out a minute later with a tri-fold photo frame, brushing her fingers over her Cas' shoulder as she passed him. She took her seat again and pressed the pictures into Dean's hands. The frame was dusty and clearly bought cheep at Target. A very Bobby purchase. The photos themselves were a bit blurry like they were taken with a camera phone. No, they were definitely taken with a camera phone. And then Bobby had printed them out and framed them.

The picture on the left caught Sam and Jess mid kiss. _Catching_ was probably the wrong word, because they looked like they were taking their time with the whole thing. The picture on the right, taken just before or just after, showed them making moon eyes and grinning at each other. They looked so happy it hurt. The middle photo was a selfie (a fucking selfie) that Dean had taken to get Sam, Jess, Cas, and himself all in the shot. They wore their FBI suits, and Cas had lost his trench coat, and Jess looked like she'd picked up the first light colored sun dress she could find at JC Penny. They all had their arms draped over each other as they tried to squish together and push Jess to the front. Even from the weird angle, he could see himself absolutely glowing with pride.

He held the photos gingerly, trying not to let the ache in his chest spread roots.

Sam with a name change then. Bobby hadn't had a kid that stole Sam's girlfriend. Or maybe Sam was Bobby's kid in this universe. But then wouldn't Sam look different? God, if this trip spilled the beans that Sam was his mom's love child with Bobby, Dean was gonna bleach his brain. But they'd only met Bobby after his dad started hunting. Unless the Campbells knew him. Or maybe—

“Dean?”

He snapped up, finding Jess' hand on his shoulder.

The fondness—the weird, weird fondness—had returned to her face. Even though he wasn't her Dean. “You're getting teary,” she said.

He scoffed and shrugged her off. “Am not.”

“Yeah,” she snarked, slipping into an easy familiarity. “Riiight.”

And he could glare at her. Snap that she didn't know him. That they were strangers just waiting for the angels to get done with their business. But instead he bowed his head, sinking into his exhaustion. “It's...been a long day.”

She nodded and let the silence stretch before she spoke again. “You know, part of me really wants to know why I'm not in your universe, and why you still have your dad's last name. But then part of me can guess, and I think maybe I don't want to know.”

“Yeah. I hear ya.” He thumbed the corner of the picture frame. “I asked Cas if he could give me a heads up about this universe. So there wouldn't be any surprises. All he had to say for himself was that it was _placid_.”

“Placid.”

“Whatever that means.”

She thought for a minute, looking at his face like she could read his history in his freckles. “I guess it is in comparison. You're still hunting, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Here Dean's mostly stopped. Went back to his day job. Sam too. He went back to law school after the apocalypse. Dean told him to. So he did.”

“That's great.”

She smiled. “It is.”

He nodded. A happy ending then. Good for them. He felt sick. “So is Dean a mechanic or a construction worker?”

For some reason, that startled another laugh out of her, and it took her a moment to realize he was serious. “Child protective services.”

He blinked. “What? Like a body guard?”

“Like he's a social worker?”

What the fuck?

She cracked up laughing. Then kept laughing. “Oh my God. Your face.”

“You're joking.”

“No, I'm not. He...oh man. Really?”

“You have to go to school for that.”

“So? He's got his MSW.”

“The fuck is that?”

“Oh my God.”

“This universe.”

“Why's it so hard to believe? It's something he's passionate about.” She bumped his shoulder. “Saving people.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Really? I think it makes loads of sense. I mean, his dad dragged him and his baby brother around the country, living out of their car, running credit card scams, and endangering them by _killing monsters_. You bet he wants to keep as many children as possible from that kinda life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it.”

She just looked at him, amusement and a painful level of understanding holding firm in the quirk of her lips.

“He did the best he could.”

But she knew. She'd heard all this before and the Dean who hugged homeless, abused, adorable children had given her answers Dean would never dream of voicing. She could see all his defenses for exactly what they were, and that was terrifying and aggravating, but there was no way he could storm out and then tell Sammy that he'd cut a conversation with her short on account of her giving him a _look_.

He shook his head. “Hey, in the last universe we were in he was the Righteous Man. So he can't be that awful.”

Her nose twitched. Like a sniff. Like she was trying to scoot a pair of glasses up her nose. And he'd never seen her do that before, but it was so endearing and he was so pissed at her and God damn this universe and the last universe and the one before that.

“I think, John Winchester was a good man,” she said. “But that doesn't make him a good father.”

He stared at her.

And she offered him a beatific smile. Radiant and clear. And she knew. Accepting of all the churning crap in his heart and loving him anyway.  Loving.  Him.

He had to look away. Just for a second. And when he looked back, her smile was even brighter, and he just had to shake his head and laugh.

“This universe,” he muttered.

“This universe,” she agreed.

“Where did your Dean stormed off to?”

“The hardware store. Sam went with him to soothe things over when he snaps at Mr. McCoy because he's gonna be too surly to be polite.”

“I guess it'd be polite to ask what the fight was about. But—”

“—You don't want to know.”

“You got it. I'd rather ask what they're getting at the hardware store.”

“New garbage disposal.”

“Oh, thank God. That old disposal is older than Cas.”

“I know, right?”

“And you're okay with all this.” Another change of subject, but it just forced itself out like a blown tire.  He gestured at the salvage yard, even though that wasn't what he meant at all, and only realized the subject change after he'd said it. “Sam told you he hunts monsters, and you were cool with it?”

“You'd have to be pretty messed up to know what goes bump in the night and be cool with it.”

“But you're still here.”

“Still here," she said.  "Exorcised a few demons, bitched out a few archangels, kicked a horseman in the nads.” She shrugged. “Sam's worth it.”

One of the strings on her hoodie was pulled longer than the other. Her wedding ring was a silver band.

With no idea how to express...whatever, he reached out awkwardly to pat her arm. So awkwardly that she laughed at him again, and pulled in his elbow to wrap around his arm and rest her head on his shoulder. She smelled like summer and Sam's shampoo.

“I'm dead in your universe,” she said.

“Sam's crazy about you,” he answered.

“Good answer, Winchester.”

“Dean.” They turned to the angels, who were staring at them again.

“You done?” Dean asked, pushing himself up with a groan.

Cas nodded. “We're ready.”

Dean smacked Cas' arm with the back of his hand. “Told ya you could do it.”

Jess came up next to them, addressing her Cas. “You leaving?”

He nodded. “They have a good plan. It's worth an attempt.”

“What should I tell Dean?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. “Tell him I've gone to an alternate reality with someone who looks exactly like him, but has yet to pick a fight with me.” A smirk slipped onto his face. “Let him 'stew in his juices.'”

“That's my boy!”  Jess grinned and popped up on her toes to kiss his cheek.  Then she turned to Dean, stepped forward, and hugged him. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” he said, patting her back. What was he gonna tell Sam? “Bye, Jess.”

She pulled back. “Nice to meet you too, Castiel. Take care of him.”

Cas nodded, taking hold of Dean's shoulder.

“And take care of Sam.”

And then the world turned inside out.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean hadn't missed much at the angel home base.

Bobby had announced he was going on a hunt and he'd be back in a week, at which point the surplus of angels and Sams better be out of his house.

Sleeping Beauty had woken from his whammy nap and the Sams had welcomed him into their study group with open arms and probably way too many questions. Dean could only imagine how traumatized the kid must have been, but in his imagination he kept it funny instead of horrible. The kid reminded him way too much of skittish, 3rd grade Sammy, and Dean knew in his bones that if he let the kid get comfortable around him, he'd latch onto Dean's pant leg and never let go.

They'd added the new time time, filled everything in, and labeled it Reality C. Then Fake Dean had nicknamed Cas C “C.C.” which she either didn't comment on or had stopped bothering to correct by the time Dean showed up.

Fake Dean probably hadn't made the best impression on C.C., who didn't have her own Dean for comparison. Fake Dean didn't care. And Dean didn't care what any angel thought of him ever, so...there.

The Sams had written big letters on the backs of their left hands. A, B, and C. Everyone (all the Castiels, both the Deans) could tell them apart blindfolded, but that hadn't stopped them. Maybe the Sams couldn't tell each other apart? _Which Sam am I?! What year is it?!_

Dean preferred this theory to the more probable one where they were just taking this research and labeling thing way too far. (But at least Sam was finally doing stupid shit with friends who got Dean's stamp of approval.) Or they were just labeling themselves to try to convince the Castiels that it wouldn't hurt if they wrote letters on their hands too. Like taking a bite of a kid's vegetables to trick them into thinking they were delicious.

In all honesty, if there got to be too many more angels around, it might get difficult to tell who was who. But, unlike the Sams, he could handle not telling them apart. He knew which one was Cas, and that was what mattered.

It didn't matter anyway, because the Castiels weren't convinced. Before Thing Two could find a magic marker in Bobby's junk drawer, they all drifted away to different parts of the property to do unspecific things. No one saw much of Cas after that. When Dean asked, Sunshine told him “It's draining to jump so many times,” and “He's paroling the perimeter,” and “It's been difficult for him to avoid you today, so he's making up for lost time.”

“That is not what she said,” Sam corrected.

“Paraphrasing,” Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes.

The Deans flat out refused to be branded in magic marker because they both refused to believe they could be mistaken for each other. Only Stabby Sam was confused anyway, and Stabby Sam deserved to be inconvenienced, what with the stabbing.

Dean told him as much, which earned him a reflexive “jerk” in return. As soon as the word was loose, Stabby Sam froze. Then he made some mumbling excuse and hurried out into the salvage yard. Both angel ladies had glared identical, mighty, smite-filled glares, and Sam had groaned, “God, Dean,” even though the kid's angst was in no way Dean's fault.

He went to grab a beer and then pass out on the sofa and let the day wash out of his memory, but instead he clicked on the back porch light, waited for Stabby Sam to come back, and combed through the kitchen and garage (for beer, he told himself).

When the kid reappeared, Dean tossed a half empty box of elbow macaroni and a bottle of wood glue. Stabby Sam caught them one after the other, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “For your craft project,” Dean explained. “Thought it could use a decorative border. I don't think Bobby has any sequins around, but you never know.”

Stabby Sam stared at him, just long enough for him to think _fuuuuuuck_ and almost give up on his forced smirk. But Sam huffed a painful laugh. “Macaroni art. That's—Wow.”

Dean nodded and went back to his beer search. “You're welcome.”

Sam shifted his hold on the box. “Yeah. Thank you.” Their eyes held for a second, and then he was gone.

Tomorrow it'd be his pant leg for sure.

The Sams handled their failure to color code everyone with their usual poise (which involved sulky bitch faces), and then decided that it was fine because the girl Casses, Sunshine and C.C., had on different outfits. (Problem solved!) They immediately turned to talking Cas D (Cas Singer) into wearing Fake Dean's red FBI tie (which looked exactly like real Dean's red FBI tie). The angel fiddled with it all night, like maybe it was as weird for him to wear it as it was for Dean to see it on him.

Fake Dean went out for pizzas and came back with a packet of gold star stickers. He carefully peeled one off and made a show of sticking it in the corner of the time line graph. “Good job!” He grinned. Then he tried to put one on the back of each of the Sam's hands, before Sam A tackled him, and they wrestled over the sticker packet, slapping stars on each other wherever they could reach. Sam B clutched his pearls and bitched about their shoes leaving scuff marks on his poster. Sam C grabbed one of the boxes of pizza and got a head start.

When they calmed down enough to eat, Sam A (and who the hell decided that guy was on Team A? Utter bullshit) had a couple gold stars in his bangs and Fake Dean had a half dozen on his shirt. Dean almost snapped at him to take them all off, because they'd leave gross spots if he forgot them and ran the shirt through the wash, but stopped himself because Fake Dean probably knew that already from the terrible unicorn sticker/Sammy's favorite Batman shirt incident of 1989.

He filled his mouth with pizza so he wouldn't say something revoltingly moronic.

They had to eat in the office so the Sams could interrogate Cas Singer about his time line and fill in their chart. The angel picked at a slice of pizza, cheese running in long strands down the side of his floppy slice of pepperoni, and told them about how Bobby'd taken the Winchester boys in and they'd had a disgustingly stable upbringing. Sam played little kid soccer and was in the marching band and something called “Mathletes.” Dean had had his own room with a memory foam mattress, which was apparently the pride of the guy's existence. They did a few local hunts, huge amounts of research for the hunting network, and answered the phones as soon as their voices dropped, pretending to be the CDC. Apprentice Bobbys. Then Dean _left Sammy_ to go to UW-Madison. Sam went to Stanford, Dean went to Wash U for _graduate school_ , and Sam started law school at Michigan until his psychic shit started acting up and they got drawn into what would become the apocalypse.

Fake Dean interrupted with a glare at Cas Singer and his stupid red tie. “Wait. He just _left Sammy_?” He had his arms crossed tight over his chest, sitting backwards on a chair, something dangerous in the tight set of his jaw. “Just abandoned him? Doesn't family mean anything to these people?”

Dean hadn't noticed before, but Sunshine had her hand on the guy's back, sweeping her thumb against a taught muscle to calm him. It clearly wasn't working. It took another second to realize he had the same knot building under his shoulder blade and the same set to his jaw. He dropped his eyes to his empty plate.

Cas Singer glared, then vanished with a flap of wings in what could only be described as a flounce.

Sam A threw his crust at his brother and said, “God, Dean. Don't be such a dick.”

“What? I'm supposed to believe there's a universe out there where I ditched my baby brother in _South Dakota_ so I could go to _school_?”

“Right, because ditching family to go to school is my thing. That what you're saying?”

“Oh, bite me. I didn't say that.”

Sam C groaned a quiet, “Guys,” that was ignored.

Sam A barreled on, “So you can't believe there's a universe where we had a normal life? How sad is that?”

“I can buy that. But dad had to leave for it to happen? Really? We hated him enough to change our names to give him the finger? That's not us. I wouldn't do that.”

“So you can't imagine a world where you don't worship the ground dad walked on. One where you can see all the damage he did and admit he messed us up.”

“Whatever. Fake Dean understands. You get it, right?”

Suddenly, all eyes were on Dean. Heat bloomed up the back of his neck, overwhelming the irritation that came with being called “Fake Dean.” He'd come up with the nickname first, and this was not allowed to get more confusing.

But everyone was watching, and as much as he wanted to jump to defend his dad or himself, all he could think of was Jess and her ugly, stretched out hoodie. He swallowed. “You didn't see it. Sam was back in school, and Jess was alive, and that's really all that matters. They had the apple pie life. It's hard to get it and even harder to keep it, but they had it.” On the other side of the chart, Sam brushed his fingers against the edges of the poster, dropping his eyes and failing to look busy with something else. “But...” Dean shook his head, “it was more than that. They were all still together. They were all there at the house. Maybe for the weekend or something, I don't know. So I guess there was a way to leave without cutting ties completely. We just missed it.” He avoided eye contact with everyone, but everyone but Sunshine was avoiding his too. “If I had to choose between keeping dad and keeping Sam, I'd pick Sam.”

In the silence that fell on them, he reached out and took Sam A's empty plate out of his hands. He gathered up everybody's dishes, and retreated to the kitchen to clean up.

The kitchen had become C.C.'s hiding spot, and she stared at him as he filled up the dish wand with liquid soap and put off running the ancient garbage disposal until the last possible second. He was so tired. So done with this. There was no way he'd get to sort through any of the jumbled mess that'd been crammed into his mind in the last 12 hours. He'd never be able to. There wasn't a point.

He could feel the piercing blue stare in the way the hairs rose on the back of his neck, could almost smell it like a chill in the air. She'd just stand there, still and silent if he let her. Maybe he should. Consider it a break where he wouldn't have to socialize. Instead, he tossed a hand towel at her with a snap. “Come on, Cas. Multi-task. Dry and ogle at the same time.”

She stepped forward and did just that.

He flicked the switch on the wall and cringed as the disposal screamed out a growl.

 

***

 

Dean woke the next morning on the battered sofa in the living room with a crick in his neck, a B scrawled on the back of his hand sometime during the night, and an overwhelming, unaccountable urge to _feed_ everyone. Maybe pancakes. Or eggs. Or both. He put on coffee and headed out into the yard to run the idea past Cas before the guy took off without him and left him here for his mother hen instincts to take over. They could leave after breakfast, but before Dean felt the need to run a load of laundry.

He didn't exactly know where Cas had hidden himself, but “patrolling” probably meant the property boundary. He'd heard him a couple times in the night—conversations in the study and a quiet discussion at the top of the stairs—but he hadn't made out the words and he'd been too tired to bother waking up to listen.

The was sky was the dull, matte gray of predawn, draining the color from the rusted cars. Even the wind hadn't woken yet, leaving a chill to lay heavy over the yard. He could probably pray to Cas, but then all the Casses would hear it. Not that it would really matter, but for some reason he didn't want that.

He did a meandering circuit of the yard, then gave up and headed back to the coffee.

Then slammed to a stop at the sight of Sunshine on the porch. Familiar red plaid. Hair disheveled. Legs long and bare. Flannel shirt brushing her thighs, hanging low off one shoulder. Only a handful of buttons done up the front.

He nearly dropped back behind a car to hide. To get his brain working again. To catch his breath.

Before he could move, the other Dean came out of the house, rubbing his head, his stride drowsy and easy. He'd either slept in his gray Henely and rumpled jeans or picked them up off the floor where he'd dropped them in a pile last night. While the angel's attention stayed fixed on some point on the horizon, his attention focused entirely on her. He honed in on her, drawn like a magnet, bare feet padding against the deck.

He pressed a possessive hand to her hip and swept her hair from her shoulder to murmur against her neck, his words a gentle hum of “Mornin', Casserole.” She tilted her head to give him better access, but had no other response that Dean could see. He should not be watching this.

“It's strange.”

He spun to find C.C. well within his personal space, squinting at the scene on the porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat.

“Jesus, Cas.” His heart pounded against his chest, but he refused to press his hand to it. Damn angels and their ninja skills.

Instead of apologizing, she changed the subject. “Only Balthazar calls me that.”

“Balthazar's a dick.”

She hummed in mild agreement.

“Sam doesn't call you Cas?”

“Sam is respectful.”

“Right. All impressed with meeting an Angel of the Lord.”

“He's not prone to nicknames.”

Yeah, that was Dean's thing. Sam mostly used them to make Dean happy and avoid confusion.

She hadn't looked away from the scene on the porch, mesmerized, like she was at the aquarium or watching a car accident. “It's difficult to understand,” she said. “I have no interest in romantic entanglements and I don't know you.”

“Way to come right out and say it.”

“Are we not talking about it?”

“I wasn't planning on it. But you're right. It's weird.”

She narrowed her eyes even further, pressing her lips into a line. “The shirt she's wearing is not attractive.”

He didn't bother to correct her, that yeah, it kinda was. “Maybe not on you, but I make it look good.”

She turned to him for the first time, her eyes appraising, sweeping from his hair to his boots and back. He arched an eyebrow. A moment of consideration and, despite her stoic cover, her face melted into a look he knew so, so well.

She was imagining how he might taste.

Recognizing it on Cas sent a jolt through his system, a shock down his spine, a warming in his gut, charging all his senses to high alert, pushing him to lean in with a smirk. He licked his lips, thinking of the texture of red plaid and skin, how her mussed hair would smell like an oncoming storm, and how that look was not nearly as foreign on her as it should be.

“You seen Cas?”

“What are you doing?” Thank God. There he was.

Pissed off and giving C.C. the stink eye, but what else was new? And his sudden appearance when he was in that kind of mood shouldn't make Dean relax.

The look on C.C.'s face had vanished. Or maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe he was fucking crazy.

“We're creeping on Bonnie and Clyde over there,” Dean said.

C.C. asked, “Who?” at the same time that Cas asked, “Why?”

Dean shrugged. “Same reason you read so much smut yesterday. We're bored.”

“Hmm.” Cas turned to C.C. to explain, “He enjoys using confusing cultural references. You get used to it.” His tone was sharper than usual. Like Cas was used to it because Cas knew everything about humanity and was really fucking smug about it.

C.C. looked less than impressed. As she should, because knowing something was a pop culture reference and understanding the reference were two very different things.

Dean cleared his throat and shoved all this weirdness behind them by nudging her arm and saying, “Hey. Have Sam hook you up with the smut today. You'll like it.”

Cas rolled his eyes, and Dean leered at both of them.

She blinked. “Smut?”

“Carver Edlund's smut.”

“Who?”

“What?!” Dean gawked at her, then turned to Cas, who looked almost smug again, then back. “Seriously? You don't have those stupid books where you come from?” That was just unfair. “Is it because I'm not in them?”

“She probably just doesn't know about them,” Cas said.

Completely unfair. Ugh.

“So where have you been?” Dean asked. “I've been looking for you.”

That brought Cas down a few notches. Enough for him to stuff his hands in his pockets and look guiltily over at a Honda. “There are a lot of people here.”

“Yeah. And you left me to deal with them alone.” _And your twin is trying to jump me. And I'm having trouble remembering the downside to that._

“Sorry.” He did not look sorry.

“I was thinking we'd have breakfast before heading out. If we leave too early, we might wake up the folks in the other universes, and they won't like that.”

“Alright,” Cas said. “We only need three more. Hopefully it won't take long. The ritual is almost ready here.”

“Good.”

Good.

He didn't really have anything else to say. This felt like the first time he'd gotten a second of calm without a million knotted thoughts fucking up his head. They were all still there somewhere, but out in the quiet yard with Cas, things felt almost normal.

The door slammed up at the house, and Sam stumbled down the stairs, still half asleep. The happy couple must have gone in to visit the coffee maker. Sam headed straight for them with a stupid half-wave. “Hey, guys.”

Dean snapped, “What?” as Cas said, “Good morning, Sam.”

“Hi, Cas. Uh. Castiel,” he nodded to C.C. “Can I talk to Dean a minute?”

Dean could sense a discussion coming a mile away, and this was definitely going to be a discussion. Sam wanted to disrupt the weird, little calm he'd found for himself. Throw some angst and a hammer and some tears into its delicate little space. But Sam wanted to do it in private, so both angels needed to stay put.

Instead, they both nodded, like complete traitors. Cas said, “I'll see you after breakfast.” Then they disappeared.

Damn it. Dean glared. “What?”

“You're gonna have all day with him, you know.”

“That didn't answer the question.”

“Fine.” Sam looked over his shoulder like someone might be listening, and like he could really keep secrets from angels if they had any desire at all to listen. When he started talking, his voice was low and secretive. “Okay, I was gonna ask last night, but you passed out before I got a chance. When you're out today, could you try to find a reality that branches from ours recently?”

What? “What?”

“Like after the apocalypse.”

“I don't have any control over where we go.”

“I know, but it'd be helpful.”

“Oh! Well if it'll be helpful, that makes all the difference!”

“Dean—“

“Why do you want to see a universe like ours?”

“Because.” He checked over his shoulder again. “In every reality so far one of us took a swan dive to trap Lucifer in the cage. Okay?”

“So? Wait. _One of us_?”

“Yeah. Well.” Sam shifted his weight. “In the Singer universe it was—um—you? I wasn't Lucifer's vessel. Jake was. Remember Ja—“

“Yeah.”

“Right. So you consented to Michael and basically did the same thing I did—took control, grabbed Lucifer, and jumped in the pit. But that's not important.”

Dean blinked. _That's not important_. Oh. Well then.

Sam's voice dropped again. “What's important is that somebody gets trapped in the cage and then Cas goes and gets them out. Every universe so far. Except ours.”

Dean raised an eyebrow in surprise, but that was all he was going to give that.  “And?”

“And I'm starting to wonder. Do you...did Cas get me out?”

Dean stared. Sam couldn't be serious. “Dude. What? No. Of course not. He would have said something.”

“I know but...I'm starting to wonder. It's in _every_ other time line. And in all of them I come back without a soul. Or you did in Reality D. And ours is the only one where it doesn't get fixed right away. Maybe our Cas was embarrassed that he did such a piss poor job of it.”

“So he let you walk around soulless and didn't answer your prayers? No. He wouldn't have done that. We flat out asked him. He wouldn't lie about it.”

“Dean...I'm starting to wonder.”

“Stop saying that.”

“It's just. There's weird stuff, okay?”

“Of course there's weird stuff. It's our lives. Our lives but where everyone has an evil goatee.”

“No, like weird Cas stuff. Even the other Castiels...it's like they're scared of him. Or disgusted. They were making some plans for the ritual last night, and Sunshine said that our Cas would anchor it because he's more powerful than the rest of them. And the rest of them were like 'yeah, of course he is.' That's the reason he's the one out making the trips to all the other dimensions, he's got the mojo. But that doesn't make sense. What's he got that the rest of them don't?”

“Maybe he's just awesome. We already knew he was the best.”

“But where'd he get the juice?”

“The guy works hard. How would I know what he's up to?”

“That's something else. We're the only time line that doesn't know everything our Cas is up to all the time.”

“Yeah, because we're not his babysitters and we're not his naggy girlfriends.”

Sam threw his hands in the air. “The day before yesterday, you were bitching about this. This exact issue. Now that other people are agreeing with you, you're gonna play devil's advocate?”

Dean scowled.

“Look, I'm not saying that he's doing anything bad. But it's weird. And he could be more open with us, and we could all band together more. We all need to trust each other more.”

“And suspecting him of getting up to...to what? That's trusting each other?”

“If you could just find out. Ask him about it.”

“ _Hey, Cas. We all think you're up to something sketchy and you might have gotten Sam out of hell and then lied about it. What do you have to say for yourself?_ Yeah. That'll go well.”

“I don't mean interrogate him. I mean ask him. Be a sympathetic ear and a decent friend for once.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, like I said, I don't think it's all his fault.”

“It's mine.”

“It's all of ours. And maybe we can learn from this and start doing better.”

Dean growled and paced away then back, scraping a hand through his hair, dirt crunching under his boots. “I told you they were going to try to teach us a lesson. I told you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Dean. You sure did.”

“This is stupid. It's Cas.”

“Okay. Just. When you're out there today, see if you can find a universe that follows ours until after I get out of hell. Maybe the Cas from that universe will know something and it'll apply to us. Or, you know, he might be more likely to fess up to whatever he's up to if he's confessing to guys who aren't his people.”

Dean scoffed. “His people.”

“You know what I mean. Just try. You don't even have to get all the details yourself. Just send him here and I'll do it when I piece together his time line.”

“I still don't have any control over where we go.”

Sam got on his thinking face, eyes glazing over and aiming off towards the pinks and peaches of the sunrise. “Could it be that he's going to weird places on purpose? Covering his tracks?”

“Oh my God, Sam. No! You know what? We're gonna find a universe like ours, and bring someone here to tell you how wrong you are.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Okay.”

“Have fake Dean make you breakfast. We're out of here.”

He turned to stalk off, to shout at Cas despite who might be listening, to disappear from this universe and not have to deal with this for a few hours. But when he turned, Sunshine stood in front of him, looking respectable in her blue raincoat with her hair combed.

“So you two are teaming up on me. Is the whole gang in on it or just the two of you?”

“You're angry,” she said.

“No shit.”

“Are you angry at us or at yourself because you know we're right?”

He stiffened before he took a step back, muscles in his arms burning against the tightening strain. “You,” he said. “I'm angry at you.”

“Your Castiel has kept many things from you.”

“Seems to run in the family,” he snapped. “You didn't tell us we were in a freaking alternate dimension. Or that you were sucking us into running your errands.”

“I thought it would be easier for you. Your Castiel trusts my judgment. Perhaps more than he trusts his own.”

“How's that work?”

Cas did not like explaining things. Not in any detail. Communicating in English, simplifying thousands of years of history and a whole bunch of quantum physics—he found the whole thing tedious. Dean'd told himself that, reminded himself, clung to it to to convince himself it wasn't that his friend was just keeping things from him to be difficult. And now Sunshine had the same put-upon expression, as if this was all obvious and Dean was slow to make the connections she saw so easily. Seeing the look on her face raised his blood pressure to a throb in his ears. He clenched his jaw.

“It's simpler to follow orders than to lead,” she said. “It's our base state. We are built to obey, to be soldiers. Leading is foreign, and he's uncertain and doubting, fighting against thousands of years of habit and experience, fighting against his own instincts, the very core of his being. There's the war against Raphael, and there's a war within him. It's wearing on him, and it will wear him down until he's nothing but a shell, and no one will be close enough to him to notice. My appearance grants him a reprieve. He can follow orders again, and they're orders that he can trust, since he can trust no one but himself.”

Dean felt sick.

“Your Castiel is alone, and I am very concerned where his choices will lead him.”

His nails bit into the palms of his hands, his knuckles white, his arms tensed from wrist to shoulder. “But you think you can handle it. Leading your side in the war plus—what?—an army of Castiels?”

She nodded. “I can handle it.”

Dean snorted. “You know I'm gonna call bullshit on that.”

She tilted her head in consideration, an innocent gesture betrayed by the building, the charging of her grace, pressurizing and sizzling just out of sight. “Why? Because I could only handle it with your help? Because I shouldn't have to take this on alone? Because we're stronger together? I had this argument a year ago. You'll be pleased to hear that you won. I already have the assistance you're offering. That's what makes me stronger than your Castiel.”

“Think so, do ya? From what I hear, he's the one with the extra batteries.”

He could practically feel Sam's displeasure. What? Was he not supposed to say anything? Maybe Sam should make a flow chart of who was supposed to know what.

“If it came to a fight,” she deadpanned, “I think I could defeat him. I've been told I have very sharp elbows.”

“And he's got a mean right hook.”

She smiled. Dean didn't return it. “I'm not the one you should offer to help.”

He let out a breath, let his arms fall slack against his sides, let the venom drain from his tone. “He's not gonna listen.”

Her voice had the bite of an order, a dark, rumbling gathering of thunder.

“Make him.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I can't find Castiel.”

They'd landed in a desert in Utah, the sky a mess of color, spirals of sandstone twisting to the sky. Especially with his eyes watering, the scene bleed together—earth and sky, pinks and oranges—into something so vast and indescribable...If Dean's lungs had been working, it would have taken his breath away.

He groaned and pulled his attention back to Cas, standing completely out of place in lines of black and white and tan within the wash of color. “Is he dead?”

“No. I can feel his presence. His grace...it's...in the air? I just can't pinpoint him. He must be warded.”

“Warded against angels. Like I am?”

“No.” Cas' words tumbled over each other in quick dismissal. “It's probably nothing like how you are.”

Nice. “Okay. So what? Should I pray to him?”

“That won't be necessary." Cas looked over and smiled. And screw Sunshine and her doom and gloom, path of destruction bullshit. Cas was awesome. "He's hidden from angels, but not from me.”

“How's that?”

“We have a spiritual connection.”

Dean snorted.

Cas closed his eyes and focused, sending his senses out into the wide world to resonate with like minded photons or something. Dean took a moment to watch him—his fingers twitching at his side, his breathing even, his face clearing of the grumpy wrinkles that had become so familiar. Cas was in a better mood this morning. Or maybe since they left. As if he was starting to let himself hope that this plan could work, as if he was as relieved to get away from the other versions of himself as Dean was. A little part of Dean—one that he tried to snatch back and tie down before it could fully form—thought maybe Cas was even looking forward to their dumb adventure today, and they were going to act like it was old times.

When he woke up this morning, that was exactly what he'd wanted. Then Sam and girl Cas had ruined his day.

He should ignore them, because they clearly had no clue what they were talking about. And they weren't allowed to harsh on his mood when 1. they weren't even here, and 2. no one should be able to disrupt a man's enjoyment of sandstone arches.

Cas' eyes snapped open, and that was all the warning Dean got before his enjoyment was completely ruined.

He knew the beat of wings at his back wasn't Castiel. It was like how he could tell when it was the Impala pulling up in the street instead of any other car, or how he could recognize when Sam was coming down with something based only on the airy hiss of his snore. This wing flap wasn't Cas, no matter what weird form he'd taken in this reality.

Instead of Castiel, they got three angels surrounding them. Black suited and bland and unsmiling, Raphael's flunkies looked the same in every universe.

The front angel, a skinny guy with a sharp nose, had his face pinched as he analyzed the changes in Cas' grace and any changes he might find in his vessel, but if he saw anything weird, he dismissed it. "Castiel. You've finally come out of hiding.”

“Zephon.” Cas shifted to put himself in front of Dean, which was annoying and wasn't even possible seeing as they were surrounded.

Zephon puffed himself up and announced, “We're prepared to accept your surrender.”

“That's not Castiel,” one of the other angels hissed. He had a blond pony tail, which lost him even more cool points. “This is a trap. Another piece of Winchester trickery.”

Dean twisted to give the guy an incredulous look. “ _Trickery_? Seriously?” He must be Bugs Bunny in this universe, painting tunnels on cliff sides so he could escape while the angels crashed into rock walls behind him. Or was that more Wile E. Coyote? That fit the scenery.

The angel sneered, shifting his hold on his blade. It shouldn't have been intimidating with his dumb hair—and it wasn't really—but Dean was effectively weaponless against the guy, and Cas hadn't bothered to slip his sword out of his sleeve yet. That's how screwed they were.

“If you're not here to surrender, what do you want?” Zephon snapped.

Cas shifted uncertainly and quirked an impostor of a smile, something too bright and too sheepish, clearly at a loss. “Uh. You know...Things?”

So Cas didn't want to let on that there was more than one of him running around, and he didn't want to mess up anything Other Cas had planned. Fine. That was honorable and strategic and whatever. But being loopy was not the way to cover.

His answer in itself might have been enough to distract the flunkies if Cas had thought to use it that way. Make a run for it. Stab someone. Something. Instead, everyone just stared at him.

“Umm. What do _you_ think I want?”

Dean slapped a hand to his forehead.

Zephon sneered. He lifted his sword.

A flash of blue, a grip on his arm, and Dean was flying, jerked through jump after jump, scenery flashing like a strobe light, too fast to see what had grabbed him, and something had grabbed him, whisking him away, through a universe he didn't know, away from Cas and his only ride home. He snatched enough breath to grab control of the shock that had frozen his stomach, to struggle, to tug, straining against the grip on his jacket. He could twist out of it. Abandon it to this universe and whatever had grabbed him. Get back to Utah. Find Cas. Shit. Shit. The grip tightened, iron and bruising, as an ocean flashed under his feet.

He hit the ground like he'd been hit by a car, gasping as the world slammed to a stop, cement biting into his knees. Everything inside his body clenched, too tight for him to even heave.

His organs were never going to survive this trip. They were probably all crumpled up and knotted together, bruised and pitiful and just done with this bullshit.

And now he was going to get angel tortured.

God. Fuck this.

The hand on his arm loosened, soothing over the burn in his bicep, and only then did he realize that his kidnapper had still been holding it. He looked up, his head still spinning like they were still moving.

Concern clouded girl Cas' face, her hair windblown and her blue raincoat brushed behind her on one side. Her other hand was latched onto Cas' wrist. Cas, who was still there and solid, and Dean hadn't completely lost his ride home.

Cas' shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you," he said.

Dean groaned, sitting back on his heels. "Yeah. Great timing." But honestly, if girl Cas had known to follow and rescue them, then she could have just warned them ahead of time not to come here. Was this some kind of set up? Or did Cas have some kind of multi-dimensional distress signal? Why not just leave them the hell alone to have their poor excuse for a hunt.

"We've warded this building. You should be safe here," she said. "I'm afraid they're looking for me, so you lit up like a Christmas tree." The simile sounded stilted and foreign in her mouth.

Cas smiled slightly, too relieved to be more than self-deprecating, "I realized that a little too late.”

"You're safe now. Hello, Dean." None of the heat from her previous warnings or her impending lecture showed on her face. And why hadn't she launched into that yet?

"Hey," he said.

She looked him over, X-ray visioning him for injuries, and apparently the inevitable shut down of every system in his body wasn't all that urgent, because she turned back to Cas so they could stare at each other with raw curiosity.

And...this wasn't Sunshine.

Okay. New Cas. That made more sense. And was infinitely more comfortable.

Dean pushed to his feet and took a look around. They were in a circular room surrounded by old-school computers and equipment panels, covered in lights that no longer blinked, buttons that would squeak under his fingers, and levers crusted in rust. Water damage and nature had crawled their way in, sending a sprawling vine across one wall, roots chipping away at pale green paint. The ceiling was opaque glass, dappled with dirt and fallen leaves and marred by the determined lines of a sigil in bright white spray paint. The whole room echoed. Maybe the whole building echoed.

“Is this an abandoned power plant?” he asked.

New Cas tore her attention away. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“It's pretty cool.”

“The lower floors are more comfortable, but I don't know what kind of welcome you'll get.”

“Probably someone trying to stab us.”

“Exactly.”

Dean decided he liked her. “Is this your hideout from Raphael?”

“It's one of our hideouts,” she said. “We've been in hiding for a while, so we have several. I take it you're not doing the same?”

Cas sounded apologetic when he said, “No.”

She hummed and looked around her home, fond and sad and proud.

“How long?” Cas asked.

“Since I learned Zacharia's plans to break the last seal on Lucifer's cage.”

Dean blinked at her. “You stopped Sam from killing Lilith.”

“It seemed the right thing to do.”

“Wow. That's—“ He shook his head and nudged Cas' arm. “She's better at passing notes than you.”

Cas made a face.

“But...the apocalypse still happened?”

New Cas made the exact same face. “We moved Lilith to one of our hideouts, kept her imprisoned and alive, went into hiding. Dean even burned down the church where she needed to die. We held out for ten months before Monica got her.”

“Who's Monica?”

“A demon. I killed her.”

“Oh. Good for you.”

“Thank you.”

And then they were back to staring. It was getting kind of old, watching Cas stare at himself, but Cas seemed to agree this time, his gaze less burning in intensity and more resigned to being inspected. The novelty had worn off or New Cas just wasn't all that interesting. The emptiness of the building seemed to pulse, wobbling off steel walls and vibrating down corridors. It made Dean want to fidget, to hum, to start talking again.

Then New Cas saved him from it, asking, “Why are you here?”

Ah. Right.

“We've got a plan to beat Raphael. A bunch of Casses from different universes team up and pool their power.”

“Miscere Vires?” she said.

“Yeah. That's what it's called.”

She tilted her head in thought. “Using only Castiels would solve the graft rejection problems. And the constructive interference would give even more power than intended.”

“Uh...Right. Constructive.”

She quirked a smile, knowing exactly how little he knew what he was talking about. “The solution is interesting.”

“But?”

“But I have my own plan, and although it's still in its infancy, I'm not ready to abandon it for what little I've heard of yours.”

“Hey. Makes sense.” Dean shrugged. “We didn't buy it either at first. But we've heard a lot of bad ideas lately. This one is almost reasonable when you hear the others.”

She leaned forward in interest. “My plan involves time travel.”

Dean's eyebrows rose. “Time travel. This'll be good.”

She didn't catch his sarcasm. “I can go back in time to stop a catastrophe, keeping a large number of souls alive so they can procreate, creating more souls that would not have existed otherwise. More souls means more energy, which can be used to defeat Raphael.”

“What kind of catastrophe?”

“The Dean of my reality wants to 'kill baby Hitler.'” She rolled her eyes because _this_ was the part of the plan that was stupid. “But I don't see much point in infanticide. Hitler was just as vulnerable as a small child.”

“Huh.” In an effort to be diplomatic, Dean nodded along even though that plan might win the Dumb Plan Award. He should mention it to Sam, so he could make blue ribbons.

Next to him, Cas shifted, looking away and trying to look like he wasn't part of this conversion.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Why do you look guilty?”

“I don't.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I—Expressing emotions on a human face is difficult. I must be doing it wrong again.” He scrunched up his face until he looked constipated.

“Dude, that is the biggest load of bullshit.” He turned to New Cas. “Are you buying this?”

She tilted her head, trying to figure out what the hell was up with him, and that was answer enough.

“You were going to kill baby Hitler too.”

“No.”

“But you were going to time travel.”

Cas looked away again and muttered, “It was Balthazar's idea.”

“Sure it was.” He asked New Cas, “Was your plan Balthazar's idea?”

“No. But...he would enjoy carrying it out. I should ask him about it.”

“See, Cas. I'm not buying it, and—Crap. Wait. Are you two giving each other ideas?”

“No,” she said, and then with a level of interest that completely betrayed what she just said, she asked, “What were you going to do?”

Cas shifted uncomfortably. “It's not important.”

“It wouldn't have worked?” Dean asked.

“It would have worked.”

“Come on, man. Just spill it.”

“...I was going to stop a ship from sinking.”

“Like a battleship?”

“Not exactly.”

“A passenger ship,” New Cas said. Her eyes sparked with excitement, latching onto the idea and letting it light her from within, even as her decision came our completely deadpan. “I like that plan.”

“Of course you do.” Dean groaned. “Well too bad. Both of you. New plan now.”

“Because cross dimensional influxes of power are so much more stable than power influxes created through minimal changes in history.” They both looked grumpy.

Dean decided that New Cas might be his second favorite Cas. She was the most like his Cas, she lived in a Bat Cave, she'd yet to tick him off or order him around, and had yet to try to have eye sex with him. Plus Cas seemed to like her. That counted for something.

“I know it sounds weird. We weren't convinced immediately either. But just give it a shot, okay? The Sams can explain all the details and the Cas running the show is too determined to let anything go wrong. Just give it a shot.” He gave her the pleading, smoldering smile, that he knew wouldn't work on her because she'd probably seen her own Dean do it a billion times without success. “You said your plan was only half baked. You might as well try this out while you get your own flushed out.”

She considered him, and he knew a good three seconds before she announced it that she was on board. “I'll need to tell the boys.”

“Do you think they'll be okay with it?”

“I don't need to consult with them. Just inform them.”

And that was a lot like his Cas too.

Less endearingly so.

 

***

 

They landed at a lookout point on the side of a mountain. The two lane road at their back was empty and the scenery before them was open and free. Purple mountains disappeared into wispy clouds. The air was thin, which might have helped him breathe since he wasn't choking on lungfuls of air, but might have hurt since he could get even less oxygen than usual. His fingers were instantly chilled, and he balled them into fists and released them, balling them and releasing them, trying to get the blood flowing again.

Cas waited, a hand resting lightly on the wooden railing, which was unfinished and striped with soft wood splinters and sap. Cas looked out, at ease like he belonged here. And maybe Dean would have to change his mental image of Cas sitting on a cloud, because this moment was pretty close.

Dean took the spot next to him, letting the soft wind brush against his face.

“So.” He turned away from the view so he could concentrate on Cas, leaning back on his elbows against the railing. “The time travel thing. Is that the big secret?”

As still as he'd been before, Cas stilled more. Like his stillness was now colored with a need to flee at a moment's notice. “What do you mean?”

Dean hesitated. He didn't like the taste of anxiety in the air. Didn't like that Cas feared him finding out.

No. Everything was fine. There wasn't anything wrong.

“Everyone thinks you're up to something. Like you've got some terrible plan you're not sharing. But if it's the time travel thing, then that's not so bad. I mean, it's pretty out there, and I don't know where you pulled it from, and I guess given our luck it'll end up going horribly wrong. But it's not like we have to worry about...I don't know. You misusing your powers or kicking puppies. It won't be the end of the world. And it didn't seem like that flushed out of a plan anyhow.” Dean lowered his head to get in Cas' line of vision, to grab him with a smile. “That's why it was a secret, right? You just weren't done thinking it through yet.”

Cas stared at him, his eyes so so so blue. Slowly, so so so slowly, his shoulders eased in relief still tinged with a stiffness that might never fade. Probably embarrassment. He lowered his head and looked up at him with the brush of a rueful smile. “I worried you'd think it was a bit far fetched,” he admitted.

Dean's smile widened. _Thank God_. “Hey. Don't worry about it. I don't share all my half baked plans.”

“No, you just act on them.”

“Shut up.” But there wasn't any heat to it. Cas teasing him was good. They were good. He shoved Cas with his shoulder and turned back to the view. Cas had good taste in private relaxation spots.

“See,” he said, “I _told_ Sammy he was worrying about nothing. I don't even know what he was on about. The guy's paranoid.”

Cas didn't speak for a moment, too lost in the view. “Sam...thinks I'm doing something nefarious?”

“Dude, don't take it personally. All these other time lines are getting him turned around.”

Cas frowned.

“Sunshine told me you're on a dangerous path and I need to stop you. But she told you the same thing the other day. I heard you talking in the kitchen.” Cas stiffened beside him, and Dean hurried to fix it. “Sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't think it mattered, and it didn't make a lot of sense anyway. But she's way outta line judging your plans. She's just upset that everyone isn't exactly like her and her perfect universe. But you're fine. I mean, if this ritual thing works, you won't need to do the time travel plan anyway, so I guess that counts as stopping you. And even if it doesn't, you're the expert on this crap. I trust you.”

Cas squinted at him, and Dean found himself holding his breath.

“Thank you, Dean. That means a great deal.”

“Any time.”

Cas looked away. “You're right. If this plan works, I won't need another.”

“Let's hope it works then.”

Cas nodded, eyes on the clouds.

 

***

 

The latest Cas was in a typical motel. Typical layout of little rooms around a parking lot. Typical neon sign with an arrow and a many pointed star unlit during the day. Typical peeling, yellow paint.

They stood in the parking lot for a second before Cas took the initiative. “His vessel is Jimmy Novak.”

“Okay. Awesome.”

“He's not sleeping with Dean.”

“That's...um.”

“And Sam and Dean are both—“ He tripped over his own words, his face pulling into a frown. “Oh. You won't like this reality.”

Dean panicked.

_I'm dead again. Sam's dead. I'm a demon. Sam's possessed by Lucifer, who has amnesia, but still has homicidal tenancies. I'm possessed by Raphael and I've killed Sam and Bobby, who are poltergeists._

A flap of wings interrupted him before he could freak out completely.

New Cas looked exactly like Dean's Cas down to the blue tie and the frumpy coat. But that made the differences all the more clear. There was a wildness in his eyes. And he looked paler. Why was he pale? He didn't look injured. Was he sick? Did angels get sick? Is that what he wasn't going to like? Because he didn't fucking like this.

“Hello, Dean.” And that was another weirdness. Usually the Castiels focused their laser vision on Cas, so surprised and interested in themselves that they effectively gave Dean the brush off. They could probably get more information reading their graces than they could looking at Dean's battered organs and mentally projected stubbornness. New Cas only gave his counterpart a sweeping glance before his desperate focus bore entirely into Dean.

“Uh. Hey.” Dean waved. It was stupid. As soon as he realized he was doing it, he stopped. “We've got a plan to stop Raphael and we want your help.”

Wow. Not the best introduction by any stretch of the imagination, but now he was on edge and flailing. Just word vomit that made no sense even to him. And angels could probably smell fear like horses, or at least New Cas would know him so well that he could read him like a book. That made him even more tense.

_I'm a head in a jar. Cas killed me in my sleep and now he's wracked with guilt. I was killed and a skin walker took my place and everyone's pretending it's me._

He spewed out their plan, and realized about half way through that spelling out all their plans like this to a complete stranger might not be the best idea. But Cas would have stopped him if the guy was evil. Cas was supposed to be their trust barometer.

But Cas was stiff at his side, distinctly uncomfortable, and saying nothing either encouraging or warning. What the hell was that about? Should they leave this guy to his universe—the one Dean “wasn't going to like”? There were infinite universes out there where they could find another Castiel. Dean would even suffer through a bonus trip through the multiverse if he really had to.

_I'm raising Sam and Ruby's orphaned, half-demon baby, and I'm teaching it to hunt._

And now he just wanted to know, because whatever it was couldn't possibly be worse than the crazy his brain was imagining. He wanted to ask. He didn't want to ask.

And maybe he was just blowing Cas' warning out of proportion. Maybe it was like “they crashed the Impala yesterday and you'll be sad about it,” or “Dean let his hair grow out, and now he has Sam hair.”

Maybe. But until someone explained, he wasn't trusting this New Cas. Something was off. Wrong. Something that had nothing to do with Dean's wild paranoia and the stress of hopping universes.

Was that a bruise on New Cas' neck? The fuck? Dean shifted his weight for a better view, but New Cas tilted his head and the shadow disappeared under his collar. It was a subtle movement, like his usual head tilt, but Dean had seen the head tilt so many times, from so many different Castiels, that he could tell when there was something off about it. It was a bit too intentional.

He finished his spiel, and New Cas considered him a moment before sighing and lowering his head, a gesture so familiar that Dean felt drawn to it even as the idea revolted him.

“Are you sure you want me?”

Dean blinked. Even as Cas stiffened further, as he stopped breathing and blinking, in painful suspension, Dean felt his muscles finally relax. Not all the way, but enough for him to to soften at the sight of Castiel with such a lack of faith in himself. So lost and meek. Feeling like he didn't deserve the things he was offered. Dean hated that look. He hated it on Sam, and he hated it on Cas, and his instincts wouldn't let him act any differently than he did.

He smiled. “Yeah. We want you.”

Cas spoke for the first time, his voice quieter and more even than Dean would have expected. “Castiel believes that through this plan, she can save us from ourselves.”

Like hell. Cas didn't need saving.

They'd all been fuck ups at some point. The guy was still Cas. Just Cas at low tide.

Cas didn't need saving, and neither did this guy.

New Cas turned to his counterpart, looking pale and tired and broken. “Will her plan save Dean and Sam?”

Dean sucked in a breath but let it out slowly, keeping his fears in check.

The furrow between Cas' eyebrows deepened. “What's wrong with Sam?”

“He has no soul.”

Dean snapped, “What? Still?” But Cas only frowned. Then he started to nod very slowly, his eyes on the sky as if seeing the history that had lead to this point unfold on the wind, as if it made sense that Sam would be soulless here. “We know how to get his soul back. We can help you with that.”

“And Dean?”

Cas sighed and shook his head. “I don't know. One of the others may know something I don't.”

New Cas bowed his head and closed his eyes. Acceptance and sorrow

The words rose up before Dean could stop them, coming out quiet and half choked. “What's wrong with Dean?”

New Cas looked back up at him, that same penetrating, haunted look in his eyes, like he was drinking Dean in, whole and healthy, trying to memorize everything about him.

“Dean's a vampire.”

Oh.

Oh.

A little voice in the back of his head hissed, _This is the universe Sam wanted_. And an even smaller voice said, _Maybe that's why Cas is worried._

 

***

 

They landed at a shady, green rest stop butted up against a forest. It was one of those rest stops snuggled away in the trees so you couldn't see the highway, but you could still hear it as a distant sweep of wind and cars. The place was vacant but for a single blue mini van on the other side of the lot, but it looked clean and maintained, the vending machine fully stocked next to a welcoming, little building.

Dean plopped a seat on a gray picnic table, setting his feet on the bench and resting his head between his knees. When his stomach stopped rolling, he flopped onto his back on the table, covering his face with an arm to keep the sun out of his eyes. The table creaked as Cas took a seat next to him.

“A vampire huh?” Dean asked.

“It seems so. Luckily, we didn't have to meet him.”

“Yeah. I don't have an icebreaker for that.”

Cas thought for a minute, as Dean let the sun soak into his clothes, into his skin, warming away the clamminess. “You could have asked him if he turns into a bat.”

Dean lifted his arm enough to give Cas a squint. “Dude, he's a vampire. He doesn't turn into a bat.”

“I know. But you could have asked anyway to start a conversation. An icebreaker.”

Dean stared.

When Cas looked down at him, his eyes danced. “The question would have irritated him.”

“Do we really want to irritate a vampire?”

“I feel like we're on the wrong sides of this conversation,” Cas said.

“Okay.” Dean lay back and put his arm back over his eyes to partially cover his smile. “Ask me if we really want to be pushing a vampire's buttons.”

“Dean,” Cas said, with a stern edge to his voice. “Do you think it's wise to irritate a vampire?”

“Hell yes it would.”

Cas' laugh was warm as the sun.

“Okay.” Dean sat up, and then clambered off the picnic table. Cas followed him to his feet. “Last one. Where is he?”

“He's in heaven. You'll have to pray to him.”

“Why don't you pray to him?”

Cas gave him his best _bitch, please_ , which made Dean grin. 

He cleared his throat, schooling his face. He theatrically pressed his palms together, bowing his head, and closing his eyes. “Oh Castiel, our patron saint of bad hair days.” He cracked open an eye to catch Cas' disapproval. “We are but tired travelers from another dimension, come to share a plan to kick Raphael's ass and see if you want to get in on it. So if you want to come on down and talk, you can finally have that epic staring contest with yourself that you've always dreamed of. We would greatly appreciate it. Forever and ever. Amen.”

They waited.

Dean's eye cracked back open to see if he'd appeared, then slipped back closed to hold his penitent pose, as if that would make a difference.

Cas sighed. “That wasn't a very good prayer.”

Dean dropped his stance. “Hey, you knew what you were getting in for.”

“Maybe we should just leave.”

“Oh hell no. We didn't leave last time. This is the last stop.”

“Not if we have to find someone else because you aggravated this one too much.”

“Hey, if that _aggravated_ him, then he clearly hasn't met me before.”

“Maybe he hasn't.”

“Then this reality sucks.”

A sound like the startled flight of pigeons burst behind them, and Dean turned to see...himself. Without Castiel.

Despite his usual layers of leather and cotton, something about him looked distinctly out of place next to the picnic table. Like he was poorly photoshopped into a photograph. And he was just _there_. Staring. His posture odd and eerie with his chin raised and arms limp at his sides.

“Uh,” Dean said. “Hey.”

The guy tilted his head to the side. “Hello, Dean.”

…

Welp.

Dean blinked about eight times, shook his head, and held up a hand to request a moment. He had to take a breath before he spoke, because apparently his lungs had spontaneously stopped during his brief aneurysm.

He squared his shoulders and pointed a finger to show his seriousness. “Dude, I don't want to know.”

Then he sighed, staring down the angel before him.

“So we've got this plan to gank Raphael.”


	9. Chapter 9

 

The Sams ran the Castiels' interviews with an enthusiasm that might have freaked out lesser beings. There was Cas E mid morning, who looked over their chart with an academic interest that was starting to be familiar. She dragged a finger along the time lines, following the branches of her history, until her finger paused at one of their dots like stops along a subway map. And the Sams had sucked as much information from her as possible, scrambling to draw a branching time line and fill in events as she told them. They got off track talking about abandoned nuclear power plants and if the sites existed in the other universes (they did) and if they could use them as hideouts as well. They busted out maps of the US and circled locations, scribbling notes.

They hadn't finished their interview when the next Cas appeared around lunch. Guy Cas this time. They had to get more ties. The one for new guy Cas was one of Sam A's fake FBI ties, with black and white and gray diagonal stripes. It was wider than what they usually saw on him, making him look thinner, draining away the little color from his face, making his eyes a faded gray. One of Bobby's ugly hounds-tooth green ones that looked like it might be made of burlap went to new girl Cas. It hung loose around her neck, unbound by her low, unbuttoned shirt collar.

Then Cas D popped back in to get them even further off track with a conversation about how Cas E kept herself shielded. The three angels in the room got into the metaphysical aspects of it pretty fast, with the Sams asking, "But can you still hear angel radio?" and "Does it cut you off from Heaven?" And then they all wanted to see the tattoo she had next to her navel, which she had no problem at all showing them, flipping her tie out of the way, and pulling up her dress shirt nearly to her bra and slipping her skirt down another half inch. Sam A bit the bullet and got close enough to copy down the Enochian, trying to look professional while clearing his throat. Cas D just reached out in interest and caressed it with two fingers, like it might rub off. Cas E didn't even blink.

They were just about to start their next interview with the next Castiel, when Dean and Cas and Cas G showed up and...

"Whoa," Sam A said.

Sam C looked like his brain might explode.

The angel's eyes were a brighter green than Dean's, reminding Sam of the few times Dean had tried to schmooze a principal to get Sam out of trouble by pulling out his nice green button down that made his eyes pop. The angel looked younger than Dean. Not by much, but still. He had a few less wrinkles around his eyes, hair just a bit shorter. It made sense if Castiel had possessed him a few years ago, freezing Dean's body in time.

And the guy had to have to worst skin Sam had ever seen on an angel. They were usually an eerie kind of perfect. But a Dean-suit...just looked like Dean, freckles and stubble and everything.

"Are...um..."

Nope. Sam had nothing. The Cas that looked like Dean grimaced, which...wow...that was freaking weird, and decided to go talk to someone else.

"Holy shit," Sam C hissed. "Are they both in there?"

"How did—I mean, how did he get Dean to agree to that?" Sam A asked.

Dean threw up his hands. "Who cares? He's here and he's game. Quit gawking at him or he'll leave and we'll have to go out again, and this time I'm sending one of you because I've got one more jump in me and I'm saving it for the trip home." He stormed off, muttering something about his intestines.

Other Dean poked his head in as soon as he could be the only Dean in the room. “Just so you all know, we're calling that one 'Handsome Cas'.” He nodded soundly, his word becoming law, and then disappeared again.

Sam took a deep breath, then pulled up a smile for the next Castiel on the docket. Cas F. So far he'd been quiet and politely interested, relaxed as he leaned back against Bobby's desk, reminding Sam of his own Cas on a good day. Which honestly, hadn't happened for a while, so this kind of flashback was nice.

"Alright. You're up."

Cas F hesitated, that relaxed posture tightening into something Sam found even more familiar. Like the weight of the world had settled back onto his shoulders. The angel swallowed. "I believe my 'time line' may be 'the bad one'."

Sam C scoffed.

"No judgment," Sam promised. "We've all done and seen stuff. And...we understand, okay?"

"And that's the cool part of all this," Sam A said. "We can make it better. Pool our resources. Maybe give you an idea of what to do with the cards you're dealt."

Cas F nodded, leaning forward. "Castiel said you had answers for me."

"Great!" Sam beamed.

Castiel pushed himself from the desk and marched up to the chart, scanning it before pointing at spot on Sam's time line in the blank section of "Sam is soulless." "This is where our realities diverge."

They hadn't written much of anything in that year and a half, leaving it blank over picking at the wall, so the spot Castiel had noted was in a blank stretch sometime in October. Sam's interest piqued. This was it. Someone who might know how he got out of hell, who might know why Cas was super-charged, who might fill in the gaps.

Sam A moved in to mark the spot. "Alright, what happened?" he asked.

Castiel stared at the chart instead of making eye contact. "They were after a vampire nest. Dean became a vampire."

All the Sams stilled. Castiel looked up, directly at Sam. "I believe in your universe he wasn't turned. Or he was cured."

Sam's stomach dropped. His throat was dry. "And...in yours..."

"He drank before they could administer the cure." His tone was professional, detached, but under it there was the echo of something broken.

Sam A was the first to recover, nudging Sam's knee and sketching in the new time line. "No judgments," he murmured.

"Right. Yeah," Sam said. "I don't really remember that. But. Yeah. I know it happened." And hopefully no more would be said about it.

Castiel frowned. "You don't remember?"

"No. I was soulless."

The angel's face cleared. "You remember nothing?"

"Just flashes. Probably like your Sam."

Castiel shook his head. "'My Sam' is still without a soul."

Sam A's pencil had frozen. His eyes were huge.

Sam slapped his arm. "No judgments."

But it did make him feel better about his own past.

"Castiel said you knew how to retrieve it. Can you tell me? And he won't remember anything?"

Sam C took over explaining the deal with Death and how Dean had made the deal in most of the realities. But his Cas had done it for him, and in Reality D, Sam had done it to get Dean's soul out. Maybe vampire Dean could do it? Or maybe Castiel could talk to Death himself. Either way, he should talk to C.C. or either of the Deans.

Castiel nodded eagerly, his eyes sharp and earnest. There was a desperation there Sam hadn't noticed before. Maybe because it was always there in his own Cas' eyes and it was so familiar he'd taken it for granted.

"And do you know a cure for vampire-ism?" he asked.

"Uh. No. Just the one," Sam said.

"Back up," Sam A said. "There's a cure for vampire-ism?" Sam C nodded next to him, his hair flopping in his enthusiasm. Sam A grabbed for a notebook, and then they got off track again, which got Castiel into impatient, exasperated mode, which was also way too familiar.

"Maybe one of the other Castiels knows," Sam offered.

"Or maybe when this ritual gets you supercharged, you can burn the vampire out of him. Like a smiting, but controlled? Or like a healing-smiting combo? I don't know. Seems like something you should be able to do if you've got the juice," Sam C suggested.

“So your Sam is walking around soulless?”

“Yes.” Cas looked guilty.

“Do you know how he got out of hell?”

Cas blinked, a pucker developing between his eyebrows. “Our universes diverged after your escape from hell. So I imagined you escaped the same way.”

“And that would be?”

“You don't know?”

“That's...why I'm asking?”

Cas considered him for a long moment, then settled on “I don't know either.”

Smooth move, Sam Winchester. Way to show your hand too soon.

Sam A bitch faced at him, then attacked the problem head on. “Look. Did you pull Sam out of hell or not?”

The angel took on that cagey look he got when he was about to book it. His eyes darted between the Sams, then skipped away, his head rocking back and forth like he was stretching his neck.

“I'd call that a yes,” Sam C said.

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Why don't you ask your Castiel this?”

“He won't answer. Dean was supposed to work on him today, but I bet he didn't.”

Cas snorted his agreement.

“Why would you even keep something like that a secret?” Sam C asked. “Getting me out of hell is a good thing. Why are you treating it like the worst thing ever?”

“And why lie about it?” Sam asked. “Dude, that's the part that makes no sense. That's the part that has us pissed.”

Cas sighed, closing his eyes. “And you find it productive to interrogate me about my mistakes.”

He had a point there. This was kinda low.

“We told you how to get your Sam's soul back,” Sam A said. “We're just asking for an exchange of information.”

“And we won't tell your...your Winchesters,” Sam C added. “So it's like a consequence free confession.”

“But you're also asking me to confess the sins of my brother. Your Castiel. This would have consequences for him.”

The hope in Sam's heart stilled its fluttering, then sunk quietly back into the dark. It was over.

He looked down at his hands, and murmured, “I deserve to know what happened to me.”

A tense silence fell over the room. Sam didn't want to look up and see anyone's pity or concern, their irritation with Cas. It was over. He could accept defeat.

He cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Have you told your Sam that you rescued him?”

“No.”

“You should.” He rubbed his eyebrow and sighed. “Fine. Let's just fill in what we can, and ask the other Casses if they know anything about vampires.”

Cas blinked in honest surprise. “You're still going to help me?”

“Of course.”

“We have to help Dean if we can,” Sam A said, still bitter about Cas' unhelpful attitude.

“And if someone knows how to cure vampires, that would be really handy for everyone,” Sam C added.

“And we still need your help with the ritual.”

“You've been around soulless Sam too long.”

Sam nodded, then picked up the pencil that Sam A had dropped and hovered it over the chart. “Okay. So Dean became a vampire. Then what happened?”

Cas was quiet so long that Sam turned back to him, only to find the angel looking at him in awe.

Then he started speaking. “I dragged Sam out of hell, straight to Cicero, Illinois and Lisa Braeden's front door. Sam turned the other direction and walked away.” He shook his head. “I couldn't...I couldn't face them after that. It would hurt Dean if he knew. Sam had turned his back...It was the first of my many spectacular failures.”

Sam stared at him.

Cas sighed again. “You're right. You deserve to know, and I have been around Soulless Sam for too long. I'd forgotten that you're a decent man, and that I no longer deserve your respect.”

“Cas—“

He held up a hand. “If I tell you, you can't turn your back on him. Promise me, Sam.”

“Okay?”

Cas looked skeptical. “It may help to know that my plan to defeat Raphael is arguably much worse than Castiel's, so he's not as bad as he could be.”

“And what's your plan?”

Cas almost looked smug. “Dean calls it ' _hopped up on angel juice: all the added vitamins and minerals a growing monster needs_ ,' although that's not terribly accurate.”

“...Angel...Juice?”

Cas pulled at the collar of his shirt, pulling it down enough to show the purple smudge of a bruise where his neck met his shoulder. The mark was healed over and broken and healed over and broken and healing even now.

“Better than demon blood.”

 

***

 

Here's a list of things Dean would rather do that talk to Fake Dean:

 

  * Jump off a bridge. Into cold water. Filled with slimy fish. That bite.

  * Help the Sams with their increasingly confusing time line tree, and deal with them snapping that he was doing it wrong.

  * Go on a beer run. Or a whiskey run. Or a tequila run. Where he would have to track down shot glasses and buy limes, and then cut the limes into wedges, and then dig into the rock salt.

  * Help the Castiels tie their color coded ties (which doesn't sound like it would be as much of a production as it ended up being.)

  * Hide.

  * Go home.




 

Regretfully, Dean found himself cornered in the kitchen by Fake Dean, neither of them knowing how to start a conversation, or even if they should make the attempt. They could both just leave in opposite directions and pretend that they hadn't seen each other, but as massive as their combined denial was, neither of them could really pretend such an action would be anything other than cowardice, and that wasn't gonna fly.

Thankfully, Nuclear Powered Bat Cave Cas was there too. She was doing her best silent statue impersonation, just staying out of the way by the oven and staring at both of them. Her tie looked ridiculous, but in a way that was kind of awesome, like she'd just partied way too hard and woken up with a hangover and some dude's tie. The general, unspoken consensus was to just keep calling her Cas E, but run it together in a single breath until it sounded like “Cassie.” Dean did not approve, and he was seriously considering making an executive decision to re-nickname her Secret Cas or Super Cas because of the fortress of solitude thing. Both options were infinitely better, and not even Sam would be able to argue with that.

Fake Dean opened the fridge and pulled out a beer from Dean's beer/whiskey/tequila/limes run. The cases of beer now filled the lower half of the fridge, with the bag of lettuce and the bag of flax seed and the sideways box of orange juice and the tupperwares full of leftovers all crammed in so tight on the top shelf that they blocked the refrigerator light.

Fake Dean popped the cap with his ring and took a swig, clenching his jaw as he took in Dean. They faced each other from across the kitchen, both bracing themselves.

“So,” Fake Dean started, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he grabed for a discussion topic, “has Cas gone with you on the annual trip to Vegas?”

That seemed innocuous enough. Dean didn't know what he'd expected—from small talk about the weather to agreements that Sam was the best to a lengthy, awkward, soul searching discussion about “treating Cas right” or yet another lecture about “stopping Cas from whatever he was up to.”

Dean scratched the side of his head. “No.”

“Then you don't know about Cas and poker.”

“Why? She good at it?”

Fake Dean grinned, looking downright evil, sneaking a look at Super Cas to see if she could back him up on this. He ticked the points off on his fingers. “She's got the world's best poker face. She's a calculator for probabilities. She counts cards. And she _reads minds_.” He tipped his beer in salute, like obviously this was a piece of information that Dean should take and run with. _You're welcome_. “Since then we've been running this racket: we go to a bar and sit at a table. She has like three shots. Then I deal and start explaining the rules. I don't know if she knows that it's a racket and just doesn't care about how it's dishonest, or if she has no idea and just thinks that I think she's forgotten the rules and she's humoring me, or if she thinks this is how all poker games start—like I said, amazing poker face, there's no way to tell with her—but she just lets me explain them to her like she's a drunk eight-year-old. And she asks these questions about the illustrations on the face cards or 'Why is it a jack and not some other nobility?' or 'Why are they called clubs when they look like clovers?' or 'Who decided which suits should be black and which should be red?' You know. Cas questions. The ones that make her look clueless and kinda drunk, but you also know she seriously wants you to go to the library and look up the history of playing cards.”

Super Cas made a noise in the back of her throat between a scoff, a growl, and a hum of agreement.

“So, of course,” Fake Dean continued, “some fools hear all of this and come up and want to help teach her and buy her three more shots. Smiling and everything. Sometimes it take 'em a while to figure out they're being had. We make out like bandits.”

Dean couldn't help his snort of laughter. “That's a good racket. But somehow, I don't think it'd work as well for us. People don't usually want to buy Cas drinks and teach him how to play card games.”

Fake Dean conceded with a shrug. “Got a point there. Just go to a casino then.”

“He's good with those games where you guess the number of jelly beans in a jar and get a free taco. And claw games. He won Sam a teddy bear once.”

“Tried ski-ball yet? We were at this boardwalk carnival thing and she spent most of the night camped out in front of it. Glared down a group of eight-year olds waiting for their turn. Then she carried around this big cloud of tickets that didn't fit in her pockets. The scuffle we got in with the witch we were hunting crumpled them all up, and she was _pissed_. Hadn't seen her that mad since she told Crowley to fuck off.”

“My Cas killed Crowley.” And, yeah, it may be bragging a bit, but whatever, Cas smoked that sucker, and it was cool.

Fake Dean looked suitably impressed. “Like smitted?” He held up a hand in imitation of pressing his palm to someone's forehead.

“Like burned his bones.”

“Nice. You should tell us where he found 'em and we can do the same.”

“I got no clue where he found them. You gotta ask him.”

“I will.” He took another drink, muttering against the lip of the bottle. “Crowley. Crazy sonuvabitch.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “God. With that Purgatory thing? What was he thinking?”

“And trying to get Cas in on it?” Fake Dean huffed, incredulous. Cas E sighed. “What an asshole.”

Dean's smile turned confused, but he kept it in place and stilted to fight off the weird coldness that crept down his spine. “Yeah. Such a dick.”

“I mean, could you believe that?”

“Did...so he asked your Cas to help him find alphas? And you?” he asked Cassie.

She nodded slowly, cautiously.

Fake Dean frowned. “Alphas? What, like _alphas_ alphas? Those exist?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Huh!”

“...Wait, so he didn't have you finding alphas for him?”

“What? Why would I do that? Like, _work for Crowley_? Are you nuts?”

Dean bristled. “It was a shitty time. We didn't have much choice. I'm not talking about it.”

Fake Dean held up a hand as a peace offering. It didn't really help settle him. “Well, here his plan wasn't about alphas. It was getting Cas to make a deal with him. Help him get to Purgatory so they could swallow everyone there and juice themselves up on monster souls.”

Cassie said, “That's not exactly how it would have worked.”

“Whatever. He really wanted her help. Offered her a crazy number of souls from hell as a down payment. I didn't think Crowley'd go through with trying to find it on his own.”

“Wasn't all on his own,” Dean said. “He dragged us into it. And a bunch of other hunters and he had his demon lackeys.”

“But he didn't have Cas. When she turned him down here, he gave up. Haven't heard much from him since.”

“Well he didn't give up where I come from.”

Fake Dean lifted his beer again, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. They stared at each other, the same something gnawing on both their edges. Green eyes meeting green eyes. The same suspicion and confusion and denial crossing their faces.

Dean spoke slowly, tasting each word as its own unit so they wouldn't fit together and make sense. “A 'crazy number of souls from hell' would have made her more powerful than she is now.”

Fake Dean shifted, matching the cadence of his voice. “He'd have to be desperate to agree to that.”

The world narrowed down to a single point of tile on the floor.

“Dude, I'm sure he wouldn't...I mean, that's just...”

“Dean—“ Cassie asked.

Dean's fingers clenched so tight on the edge of the counter that they ached.

Fake Dean grasped for something, anything to say. “You said that he killed the guy, right? So even if he did make the deal, it's void now. He turned it around.”

Dean replayed conversations. The last few days. The last few weeks. The last six months. That shadow behind everything Cas did or said, the one that smelled like lies unless you pretended it didn't. Cas hadn't come to him, hadn't trusted him, because Dean hadn't been there for him. He'd abandoned the guy to navigate free will on his own, to lead people when he'd never done anything but follow. And for what? So Dean could play house and get his heart trampled on, because he could never be normal, and he didn't have what it took to support the people he cared about.

“Hey. You okay?”

The words were muffled. Distant. Unreal.

The footsteps were muffled too, and maybe Dean knew they were coming or maybe an hour passed without Dean knowing anything.

“Dean?”

He snapped up to find Sam in the kitchen, concerned and flushed.

“Are...are you okay?”

Dean blinked. Fake Dean was poised just behind the table, ready to burst out of his skin, or jump and grab a first aid kit or a gun or anything. Cassie was almost at his elbow, ready to knock him out if he got hysterical.

Dean shot them a brief warning look and instinctively forced the fakest everything's-alright-smiles on his face. “Yeah, Sammy. Everything's fine. You need some more pencil lead?”

“Uh. No. We just. We talked to Cas F. And...are you sure you're alright?”

“I'm great.”

“Okay?” Sam's gaze (obnoxiously) swept to Fake Dean for confirmation, who weirdly enough had Dean's back and gave him a blank stare back. “So we talked to Cas F.”

“Vampire Cas.”

Sam cringed. “Yeah. Anyway. Before the vampire thing...he had this other plan. And I'm almost positive it's the same plan our Cas has.”

Dean found himself shaking his head, his shoulders sinking, and maybe he could sink all the way into the floor. “So help me, the next words out of your mouth better be 'sinking luxury cruise liner'.”

Sam's forehead erupted in confused wrinkles. “What?”

Cassie moved, taking two steps to get in Dean's face and grip his arm. She forced his eyes to hers. They looked so much like Cas'. It was so hard to hold them. After staring at her a moment, she decided something and turned to Sam. “When is the ritual?”

“Tomorrow at sunrise?”

“Then we have time.”

She looked back at Dean and squeezed his arm once. “We'll fix this,” she assured him. Then she snapped at Fake Dean, “Get the basement ready. Keep Castiel occupied elsewhere.” Then she vanished.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

A commotion wafted down from upstairs. Fighting. Screaming. General thumping and goons bumping and bumbling through the main thing Crowley had hired them to do.

He couldn't be bothered. He cut another strip of flesh, smiling a bit at the network of venom sacks, and the scream of the monster on the table, and the chaos on the floors above. It would serve those lazy excuses for demon security right to get their asses proverbially handed to them. If they couldn't manage to stop whoever found the need to storm his small castle, they had no business in his employment. No business topside, for that matter.

The door slammed open, and he turned with mild interest to greet his visitor. A small woman in a blue raincoat with the wrath of God in her eyes marched down the stairs. An angel. Obvious from the glowing, scowling faces hidden under her skin and the way she carried herself with all sorts of boring righteousness.

He wiped his bloody hand on his apron. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure.”

She stormed forward, her shoulders hunched and tensed and ready to strike, her burning blue eyes—

 _Oh_.

Oh, now this was interesting.

He beamed. “Why, Castiel, darling, is that a new dress?”

Her advance rolled on, not even pausing until she'd grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against a wall, cratering the brickwork and showering them both in a dusting of rubble.

He winced against the choke hold and held himself back from struggling, from grabbing for her wrist. “Makes you look fat.”

A growl peeled back her lips to show her teeth, a palm slapped against his forehead, and they were flying, his soul turning inside out. He did struggle then, wrestling with an angel in mid-flight as his body threatened to rip apart and the smoke of his true self vibrated so hard it might crack and explode. He slammed into a chair with a gasp, his eyes bulging, and maybe the only reason he didn't fly apart was because of the demon trap holding him inside.

Typical.

She stepped out of the circle and glared at him as he rubbed his throat and glared back. It was a hasty demon's trap, done in red paint on a cement floor, probably a basement, probably Bobby Singer's given the smell and the detritus of sloppy spell books and what he could only assume was farm equipment. His kidnapper hadn't bothered to tie Crowley up, making this a social call. He rubbed his throat once more out of showmanship and straightened his tie, before looking up at her and her...companions.

Well, well.

“Cassandra, you minx. What are they? Shape shifters? Bit extreme, trying to make all your wildest fantasies come true, don't you think? But I shouldn't really be surprised.”

One of the two Deans snapped, “Shut up,” his arms folded tight over his chest to physically hold in the explosion of impotent rage that threatened to burst at any moment. The other just glared, solid and determined, trying to look imposing and failing like always.

“Not shape shifters then. They're generally proud of their suits, so this broody display doesn't fit.” Crowley leaned forward, resting his elbows on the chair arms and threading his fingers together before him. “Let me guess. Through some happy accident, your boy ended up duplicated. But after the initial euphoria, the—I'm sure— _shameless_ sexual escapades, there were side effects of some sort. Ripples in space time. Violations of the Pauli exclusion principle. All the mumbling cowboy voices and the custody battle over that ridiculous car are giving you a headache. The details aren't important. What's important is that two Deans are simply one or two too many, and you need my help either killing one of them off or super gluing them back together.”

The Clones Dean stared at him, at a loss.

Crowley raised his eyebrows and shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “That or you want to give me one as a present. You shouldn't have, love, but I guess it's the thought that counts.”

The angel remained unphased, her voice even and threatening, “You made a deal with Castiel.”

His eyebrows rose. “Talking about ourselves in the third person, are we?”

“And you are using plural pronouns when you should not. There is no _we_.”

“If there's no we, who have I been spooning all these months?”

The Dean on the left looked ready to punch him. Let the idiot try.

“You made a deal with Castiel,” she repeated.

This was getting ridiculous, and he let his irritation spill out as he snapped. “Is your programming broken, you stupid robot? Of course I made a deal with you, and you better bloody well follow through with your end.”

“And what is my end?”

“Are you kidding me, Cassandra? I don't take kindly to people kidding me.”

She growled, moving forward and leaning in to brace her hands on the arms of his chair, her face unreasonably close. “Speak.”

“Do you have amnesia or just a screw loose?”

“You will tell me the terms of your bargain or I will end you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. Same grumbly frowns on all her faces, same bad attitude like she was better than him even though they all knew by now that wasn't even remotely true, same frumpy dress sense and—fucking hell, was that a _tie_?! But something had changed since the last time the angel popped in, something other than the new outfit and the (rather nice) breasts.

Interesting. “Just a tick...” Very interesting. “You're not from around here, are you?”

Her silence spoke volumes.

“More like you're kinda far from home,” Dean on the right said.

“Ahh. I see. Parallel universe? Alternate dimension, perhaps? Oh darling, I have no idea what you're doing here, but I hope you leave dear Castiel alone to make his own poor decisions. He's a big boy, experimenting with free will, and it's high time he learned to clean up his own messes. Besides which, he's quite set on the plan. I'd hate to disappoint him.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, her nose crinkling as her lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Strangely, I find this much more arousing in your other suit.”

With a flap of wings and a pulse of power, another angel appeared. Another Castiel. Also a woman, but with a gray pea coat that was almost savvy in comparison to the disaster before him. She scowled at the lot of them. "What is this?"

Crowley was rather interested in that answer, but before his kidnapper could respond, yet another angel appeared in the form Crowley was most accustomed to. Except for the cheep red tie. He took in the scene and frowned.

"As nice as it is to be invited to your family reunion—"

"Shut it, Crowley."

"First it's 'shut up' and then it's 'speak' and then it's 'shut it.' You people need to coordinate a bit better."

The angels ignored him, Cassandra asking, "Where's Castiel?"

"Thebes," Red Tie said.

"Keep him there." She turned to Nicely Dressed, "Where's Castiel?"

She pronounced the name ever so slightly differently, as if she could differentiate between the photocopies with just the intention behind the name, the millimeter differences in the roll of her tongue.

Crowley could feel the beginnings of a migraine.

"The library."

"His assistance would be appreciated."

Nicely Dressed huffed with an irritation that Crowley knew very, very well. The huff that said, "I'm too good to run your errands, yet I'm clearly going to do it anyway, which means I'm not too good at all, so this is all just terribly trivial and I should get over myself already." That huff.

God.

When her helper bunnies vanished, Cassandra turned back to him. "You are going to tell me every specific of the deal you made with Castiel."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I kill you." She tiled her head. "Or torture. We could do either."

"Come now, you plan on killing me anyway. Let's not pretend."

"Will killing you release him from his contract?"

Please. What did she expect him to say to a stupid question like that? Why, yes! Kill me and your precious Castiel goes free and you win twice over.

"Actually, no. He'll die along with me. Those are the terms."

She smiled, an amused twitch of her lips. "We'll see."

Yet another angel appeared. This one with an even more hideous tie in gray stripes. How could they function with so many of him? How had their brains not exploded from the overwhelming number of judgmental glares and bumbling eagerness to prove themselves? They must be falling all over each other.

The newcomer blinked at Crowley, then at one of the Deans, then finally at Cassandra. "You're going to kill him?"

"Will that get Castiel out of his contract?"

"It wasn't a contract. There's no way he could have held me in one. It was a...gentleman's agreement. Mutually assured self-destruction should either of us back out."

Cassandra smirked, catching Crowley in his lie. He shrugged. "Worth a shot, love."

The Dean on the left sunk in relief, running a hand over his face. "So we kill him and this whole Purgatory thing goes up in smoke."

"Yes," Gray Tie said. “His lieutenants hate him. They won't avenge his death.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Those fools he employed would dance on his grave, then fall on each other like hyenas.

"Awesome. Let's do this," Dean on the left said, letting his arms fall from his chest. He raised an eyebrow at Gray Tie. “We can gank your guy next if you want.”

The angel shook his head. “Dean killed him already.”

“With his freaky powers?”

Gray Tie tilted his head instead of answering.

Everyone else cringed.

Dean on the left shied away from the subject, turning to his doplegangar. "You got your Colt?"

“Umm, no...”

“What do you mean, no?”

Dean on the right shrugged. “Sorta lost it.”

“Will the knife work on him?”

“Probably not,” Cassandra said.

“You could always burn my bones,” Crowley offered.

Dean on the left snapped off a painfully typical “Screw you.”

“I could get Dean to do it,” Gray Tie offered.

The resounding “No” came in stereo from all parties. Gary Tie frowned, muttering, “He's not that bad once you get to know him.”

“Dude,” Dean on the right said, “You made a deal with a demon and then agreed to be a vampire Capri Sun. It's pretty much decided that you don't have the best judgment.”

Gray Tie grumbled some more.

“I'll smite him,” Cassandra said and rolled up her sleeve, which was completely unnecessary for smiting.

“Now, let's not be hasty,” Crowley said. “Don't you have any idea what will happen if you kill me? Hell will be in chaos. You don't know who will take control after me. Things could get much much worse. You have to admit that my version of hell is far superior to anything they've tried before and anything they'll try in the future.”

“I've dealt with hell,” Dean on the left said.

And he must be the Dean from his own universe. The Dean he knew and despised and for whom he held a faint amusement. The Dean he'd bent over backwards for in order to keep the angel appeased.

Crowley threaded his fingers together again, resting them on his stomach. “Alright...and what will you tell dear Castiel? That you've ruined his one chance to win his war? That all these months he's worked to keep you safe, to protect your pathetic world, to stave off the apocalypse because it's what _you_ would want. You're going to tell him that none of that means anything to you in the slightest.”

Dean glared, his hands in white knuckled fists at his sides.

“The _lengths_ he's gone to. The _sacrifices_ he's made. He put aside his own high and mighty morals for you, and you're going to tell him it wasn't worth it.” He shook his head and tutted. “I really would like to see that. I think it may break him. All he ever wanted was your approval, after all. But here's the thing everyone knew but him: really, the bastard never had a chance.”

Their audience stood on pins and needles, ready to grab Dean should he make a move, hold him back, keep him from doing something stupid.

Crowley hoped he would try something stupid. It seemed likely.

Instead Dean let his words come slowly, each a roll of anger. “You're a snake. You're a manipulative, ugly, lying sonuvabitch, and I'm going to gut you and strangle you with your own intestines.”

“Sounds fun.”

He jerked his head at Cassandra, his eye never leaving Crowley. “Do it.”

She stepped into the devil's trap, adjusting the roll of her sleeve.

And thunder broke above them, rolling and rolling, clashing and jarring. Cassandra paused, looked up to the ceiling as the lights flickered and the loose boards on the stairs shuddered and banged. Crowley smirked.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Cas landed like a meteor. An avenging angel. The wrath of God. He loomed, dominating the room so much that when Cas Singer appeared right behind him, embarrassed and exasperated, he looked about half of Cas' size. The light above them exploded. Castiel's eyes glowed like hellfire, sweeping first to Crowley, then Cassie, then Dean.

“What is this?” Thunder boomed, his voice reverberating, barely held within human decibel levels.

“I'm righting a wrong,” Cassie said, pulling his attention from his stare down with Dean.

“It's not your wrong to right.”

“We're helping you. Accept the assistance and be grateful.” She held her own, her head held high, not shrinking back from the surges of angry power pulsing off Cas—pulses that made Dean's head swim.

"Cas." Dean reached for his sleeve, and Cas threw him off, spinning on him. The elbow that swept past his face would have knocked him unconscious except for his quick footwork as he reared back, as they glared at one another. Both enraged. Both betrayed.

Dean's heart pounded like he faced a monster, a predator. But this was Cas. And he knew Cas. And Cas wouldn't hurt...He wouldn't.

"Okay.” Dean tried to sound soothing, his fight or flight instincts ripping against his ribs. “Okay. Let's just...just reevaluate."

"This is none of your concern."

"The apocalypse is my concern. You selling your soul is my concern." Even if he hadn't technically sold his soul, he had figuratively, and that was bad enough.

Cas snapped, “Since when?”

Dean startled like he'd been punched.

Cas growled. “Since when are my actions your business? Since when do you care when it doesn't affect you?”

Dean blinked, guilt and hurt washing over him in a wave. "Yeah. Alright. I haven't been real involved in your stuff lately."

Cas huffed. His breath hot against Dean's face like his grace was burning out of him, heating the room. Dean's calm wavered, the balance in his chest shifting from _run_ to _fight_ , and his center of gravity changing with it.

“But only because you didn't tell me about it. You gotta ask for help. I can't read your damned mind."

"I don't need your help."

"But you need Crowley's?!"

Cas squeezed his eyes closed, his forehead creased and pinched, his nostrils flaring as he took a strengthening breath. "I'm trying to keep you safe."

"Well, we're past that now. I'm in it. And guess what, asshole, I don't need you protecting me."

"You don't understand."

"Then why don't you fucking explain it to me? Shit, Cas! Haven't we learned from all of this that we do better when we're in it together? You don't have to do everything alone.”

“I haven't had a choice.”

“Seriously? You didn't have a choice to lie to us about getting Sam out of hell? You didn't have a choice _faking Crowley's death_? To work with him? I don't know if you've been paying attention the last few days, but there were a lot of choices you could have made and a lot of different ways this could have gone down.”

Cas grabbed his own hair in a fist.

“And fine. You didn't have a choice then, but you do now. You're not alone. You've got us. You've got all these other grumpy assholes. We've all got your back, and you're acting like a child. You're stubborn and ungrateful and full of shit. You know that? Get your head out of your ass, open your eyes, and see that everyone here would go to hell and back for you. Dude, I went universe hopping with you for a slim chance to win your war. Girl Cas has been trying to protect you for days. Cassie kidnapped Crowley to break your contract and get you out of this mess. We're here for you.”

Dean ignored everyone even as he gestured at them. Cassie, Cas Singer, and Vampire Cas trying to look small and invisible, Fake Dean tensed and serious, Crowley adjusting his tie like ha had no interest whatsoever in their domestic disputes.

The air had changed, less electrified with anger, but just as stifling, now with some sickening, anxious emotion that crept under Dean's skin and itched like crawling ants. Cas' confusion sizzled and his desperate struggle to cling to his decision and justify himself felt palpable. Dean could almost see it in the air.

“Dean.” Cas' hair was wild, his fingers twitching at his side, his eyes pleading. “It may be the only way.”

“And it might not! We've been working on girl Cas' plan for days. Don't give up on it before we've even tried it. And there's that time travel thing. And locking Raphael in a cage. Hell, instead of opening Purgatory and eating everyone there, we could just toss Raphael in and slam the door behind him. We've got options. Just not Crowley!”

“You've made deals with demons yourself.”

“Yeah, and it was a dumb call! All these other crazy plans don't give power to a demon, who'd just as soon backstab you as look at you. He's manipulating you. You gotta see that. He got you to lie to me, and if you're lying about it, then part of you knows it's wrong. Don't pretend you don't.”

“Of course I do. Do you think this is what I want? That I don't wish there was another way?”

“There is another way! Fuck! Get it through your skull that there _is_.”

Cas grimaced, dragging his eyes away and hunching in on himself like he could physically dig into his dumb-ass decision.

Dean scraped both hands over his face. “You stubborn asshole,” he muttered.

“I'm taking Crowley back to our universe,” Cas announced. “He has no business here.”

Dean blanched. “What—“

“It's true,” Crowley said. “As entertaining as your quarrel is and as wonderful as your hospitality has been, I was in the middle of something. Thank you, Cassandra, for a lovely visit.”

Cassie peeled herself from the background. “I have a thought,” she said.

Cas gave her an unimpressed stare, his hackles rising again.

“We'll keep him here until we've attempted Castiel's ritual. If it fails you can continue with your ill-advised plans. If it succeeds, you will no longer need him.”

 _And we'll kill him_ , went unsaid.

Cas narrowed his eyes.

Crowley held up a finger. “Now, I have an issue with that.”

“Does it look like you're part of this conversation?” Dean snapped. “Shut the hell up.”

Crowley hiked an eyebrow, his lips thinning with displeasure.

Cas hadn't responded, thinking it over for way longer than an offer like that really required. Dean started to worry Cas was plotting something new. How fast he could move to grab Crowley and bolt. If he could outrun Cassie, Cas Singer, and Vampire Cas. If he could take all three of them in a fight.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “I'll make this easier for you,” she said. “He's my prisoner and you're not taking him until I release him into your custody.”

Cas Singer shifted in a subtle movement until he stood firmly behind her, on her side, backing her up. Vampire Cas had done the same. None of their expressions had changed.

They had another angel stare down, more alien and charged than any that had come before. The moment stretched and Dean's breath stilled. Waiting. Waiting.

_Please, Cas. Please, let it go._

Cas' surrender was an exhaled breath, the softest slump of his shoulders. And Dean thought his knees might buckle in relief. It was such a small victory. He was so tired.

Cas' eyes swung to Crowley, who glared.

Then Cas was looking at Dean. The blue of his eyes sorrow like an ocean.

Dean couldn't dig up forgiveness. He was nowhere close to that. Nowhere close to understanding. Not even anywhere close to anger. Just the numbness of something irrecoverably broken.

Cas' eyes closed. A moment later, he vanished.

The beat of his wings rang with finality.

Dean was never going to get Cas back.

He needed to get out of here.

He stomped up the stairs, followed at a distance by Fake Dean, and when he turned to give the guy an exhausted glare, he could recognize pity on his own face. That wanting to reach out, to soothe and nurture and reassure, and that hesitance because hugging and showing empathy wasn't really his thing. It _wasn't._ Not even in the messed up hugger universe.

Fake Dean shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and sighed, offering, “Want to get drunk?”

Yeah. He really, really did.


	12. Chapter 12

The only place with enough space for the ritual was one of Bobby's garages unless they wanted to just do it outside, where there were, like, birds and rocks and stuff. They probably could have fit the ritual and the seven angels in the panic room, but too many wards would have to come down, and there was no way all the Winchesters would be able to cram into that little doorway.

Other Dean had spent the last few days clearing out the garage, getting the cars in good enough shape to move them into the yard and send one of them home with its owner. He relocated all the equipment and a couple stacks of tires and a shelf full of fluids. He swept and cleaned and then he and the angels combed over the place to make sure no residual magic was left behind to snag on the spell and throw everything off.

He'd managed to ward the whole thing so Raphael wouldn't immediately notice the power surge. Sam had never seen the sigils before—apparently contributions from Cas C. They interlocked with each other to form a dome overhead, distributing any magic that hit them across the dome's surface. They wouldn't disguise too much power, and therefore wouldn't last for too long, but the wards were smaller, less powerful, and ultimately less likely to interfere with the Miscere Vires.

After one last check, Other Dean handed off control of the space and disappeared into the yard with Dean and their old friends Jameson and Guinness.

Sam A took charge like a general, his stride long and determined, arms full of sigils written on long, rolled up pages like blue prints. He practically vibrated, so beyond ready to do his part of the plan, the part he'd researched and perfected and slaved over. He was ready to show his stuff.

He was ready for everyone to do exactly what he said.

Sam followed in his wake, balancing a plastic bucket of chalk on top of a stack of books “just in case they needed to double check.”

“I can get started drawing the first circle,” Sam C offered, dropping a stack of spiral notebooks and reaching for Sam's chalk.

“No. I got it,” Sam A said, taking the chalk himself. “I know the dimensions.”

Sam C laughed. “Dude, we all know the dimensions.”

“Yeah,” Sam A said, distracted by measuring off the space and inspecting the floor for debris. “Don't worry. I got it.”

Sam C moved to argue, but Sam elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a look that said, _Let him do his thing._

It quickly became apparent that although Dean would have picked up on his meaning immediately, Sam didn't have a lot of practice reading his own facial cues. Or maybe Sam C was just more stubborn than Dean...which couldn't possibly be true. Sam C gave in on the first circle drawing, but kept pushing on everything else. He offered to start writing the runes once the circle was in place. He offered to start mixing the incense they needed to burn. He defended Cas G when Sam A snapped at him for getting in the way.

Sam C inevitably stomped out in a huff, muttering about how he was just trying to help and how he was unappreciated. Sam A didn't notice, too absorbed in a careful string of runes.

The angels circled, floating in and out of the garage. They watched in interest, checking over the spell or reading it for the first time like a mystery novel. It was hard to tell which, because Sam lost count of how many times the angels had to be moved for the sigil's construction to continue. If they knew what was happening, surely they wouldn't be in the way that much.

Well, no. They probably would.

Even Sunshine stood with her shoes planted in the path of the writing, staring as the chalk marks approached her toes, then staring more as Sam A pouted up at her. Sam turned his attention from helping prepare the spell (which he wasn't really doing anyway) to persuading the angels to stay out of the guy's way. He'd never really understood the phrase “herding cats” until that moment.

At least his Cas wasn't in the way. At least not physically. He hadn't seen the angel since the fight. No one spoke of it.

The preparations called to him, humming that he could help, that this was what he was good at, that it would get his mind off his brother and the angel and the life that waited for him. If only he had a piece of chalk in his hand, the grittiness against his fingers as something productive bloomed under his care. If only he could lose himself in the careful act of copying. Maybe he could draw the outer circle, or the interior heptagon. He held himself back from asking.

He could understand why the third Sam had given up and abandoned the garage.

Sam A asked Cas D for another piece of chalk when the one he was using ran down to a nub. Cas D just tilted his head and blinked at him, like _why?_ Sam sighed and got the guy a new piece of chalk himself, appeasing their fearless leader and keeping Cas D from getting his head bitten off and his feelings hurt.

There was a crash from out in the yard, and everyone turned to look out into the dark, to wait for another crash or a shout. When none came, they went haltingly back to their work. A renewed silence settled on them all.

No one went to check on the Deans.

Sam A reached new heights of crazed and stubborn around three o'clock when Cas F questioned one of his runes, spawning a wave of citations that had him flipping through his “just in case” books in a flurry of defensiveness.

“I'm gonna...” Sam pointed over his shoulder, already backing away. No one paid him any attention, and he ducked out of the garage.

The salvage yard was the chilly dark of a sleepless night. He thought he'd get himself a snack and take a nap on the couch, but found himself walking away from the house, into the graveyard of cars. Twisted shadows from the scattered flood lights reached for his ankles, stretched for the hem of his shirt, brushed against the back of his neck. Maybe he'd check on Dean. Maybe he'd find Cas. Maybe he'd find Sunshine and she'd have something for him to do to stay busy.

Instead he found the residents of Reality C in a hissed discussion behind a Saturn stacked on a Ford stacked on a Dodge.

“He won't be the same,” she murmured. “He's been there for three and a half centuries. There's no telling what that's done to him. And if we got him back, there'd be no assurance that you'd manage the kind of relationship that we've see here.”

Sam's stomach dropped. He couldn't move to announce himself or back off. The drum of his heartbeat would surely give him away.

“Maybe you could put up a wall,” Sam C said. His voice tripped over itself, excited and anxious and needy. “Or erase his memories.”

There was a silence and Sam could picture the conflict on Cas' face.

Sam C's voice clouded with desperation, the volume dropping even lower. “You want to try just as much as I do. I know you do. We have to try. We have a chance and we _have_ to take it. We just have to.”

She sighed. “I don't want to get your hopes up. He might not be the man we want him to be. It may not be the perfect ending we both want.”

“Castiel,” his voice cracked on the plea. “Please. Now that I know...”

“I know, Sam. I know.”

“I just can't...”

She murmured like she didn't want to say the words aloud, didn't want the fear to spread. “He might be a demon.”

“He might _not!_ ”

Sam backed up several steps, then purposefully bumped into a Buick with a clang and stomped his way towards them, shouting, “Sam? Dude, you out here?”

“Over here.”

Sam rounded the corner to see them curled towards each other, as if even with the feet of space between them, they could still prop each other up. With Sam's height, he practically leaned over her, a shield against the dark.

It hit Sam that they were alone. And in that they were together.

“Hey.” It also hit him that he had nothing to say.

He stood awkwardly just long enough for that to be obvious before Cas F appeared at his side and announced, “The Deans have reappeared. Sam wants to go over the plan one last time with everyone.” His voice strained like had zero interest in useless meetings and Sam was on his very last nerve anyway.

“Why?” Sam asked. “We've heard the plan a dozen times.”

Both Castiels scowled.

The other Sam groaned, then straightened. “Okay. Let's go.”

Everyone had gathered back at the garage, where—surprisingly enough—all twelve of them fit.

Sam A sat near the middle of the sigil with a spiral notebook on his knee and a pen between his teeth. His eyebrows were drawn as he skimmed a section in his handwriting one last time. The Deans stood next to each other, their eyes glassy and their postures a weird mixture of slumped and tense. Sunshine slipped between them, pressing a steaming Vikings coffee mug in lurid purple into other Dean's hands and nudging Dean until he looked up from the floor and took his own coffee. His mug was lime green with a daisy on it. The angels stood in a loose circle, oscillating between offended that they had to listen to things they already knew and fascinated by the air just over the runes. Cas G held one of the sigil blueprints unrolled in his hands, looking it over with a patient interest that had no business on Dean's face.

Cas had made an appearance, standing still and quiet and small, avoiding eye contact. The other Castiels ignored him out of respect for his wishes to not be bothered more than out of malice.

Dean took a sip of his coffee and grimaced off towards the far wall.

“Okay, here's how this is going to work.” Sam A explained. “When the connection is formed, each Cas will get the strength of all the Castiels, so they'll each be about seven times as powerful—give or take depending on how strong they are right now.” His eyes flicked to Cas and then Cas F before darting back to his notes. “But, the thing is that there's going to be resonance. So every time anyone uses their grace, it'll reflect back and everyone's power levels are going to increase.”

“So the last person to kill their Raphael will have the most power to do it,” Sam clarified.

“Yeah, but it's not just that. Just making the jump back to everyone's home universe will ramp it up by—” he flipped pages in his notebook until he could show a graph, “—a factor of three.”

“And that's on top of the factor of seven from the connection.”

“Yeah. So by the time you all get to your own universes, the Castiels will be around twenty times as strong as they are now. And that's if our estimates are right.”

“And that's before anyone even uses their grace to kill Raphael.”

“Yeah. We don't have any measurements to work with on how much grace it takes to gank an archangel, but definitely more than teleporting, even if it is across dimensions. So the power levels are gonna go up exponentially.” Sam A consulted his notes again. “Now, we don't know how much power Cas can handle before it rips her apart—or rip any of you apart. We don't know where the cut off is. It might get bad enough to just burn you out completely. So don't use any more grace than you absolutely have to. We want everyone to pull out before it gets to be too much and does any damage, but we also want everyone to get the job done before that happens.”

Sam C shifted at Sam's side, crossing his arms to hug himself in a gesture Sam knew—just _knew—_ was incriminating. But incriminating of what, he wasn't sure. It took all of his restraint not to turn and draw attention to it. “If one person drops out, will that throw off the whole spell?” he asked.

Sam A didn't catch any hidden meaning behind the question, and consulted his notes. “I don't know. It definitely wouldn't be stable anymore, and it might just throw everyone else out of the spell too. But on the other hand, it would drop the energy levels, so if things were getting too crazy, someone backing out might make everything more manageable again. At least for a few seconds. I really don't know.”

“So,” Sam C said, “the last person to get their job done will have the most power, but also the largest chance that the spell will collapse before they finish.”

“Well. Yeah. But it shouldn't get bad that fast. Like I said, just don't go on any side trips or try using the spell to power anything else.”

Sam let his eyes slip to Cas C, who looked exactly as shifty as expected. In fact, a few of the angels did. The others looked oblivious or simply uncaring.

Two terrible sides of Castiel on display: ambivalent and deceitful.

So it was only fitting when Cas spoke. “The spell should stabilize again when there are only three of us left.” He looked straight at Sam C, and the fact that he knew Reality C was planning something was so painfully, painfully obvious that Sam wondered just how oblivious the other Castiels could be. Maybe they just weren't going to stop each other from abusing power. Maybe they all agreed and just didn't want the humans from Reality A to catch on.

It didn't seem like Sunshine would be on board with that.

Sam C nodded. “Okay. That's—that's a good backup then.”

Completely on accident, Cas' eyes caught Sam's before he turned his gaze back to the floor.

Sam's chest was so tight he might not have been breathing.

 

***

 

Sam climbed the stairs and let himself into Bobby's room. The bed was made with military precision at odds with the star-burst patterned quilt, so he could tell if anyone tried to sleep in his bed while he was gone. A handful of framed photos spotted the dresser, all showing grand sceneries and tiny figures unrecognizable from a distance. The window squeaked in protest as Sam raised it, and he swung a leg out onto the sloping roof covering the side porch.

Cas had his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins to keep them in place, holding his own wrist. He didn't move at the sound of the window, nor when Sam took a seat next to him. Sam stretched out his legs, pushing into the roof with his heels and his butt to keep from slipping against the grainy shingles.

“Hey, Cas.”

Cas sighed. “Hello, Sam.” He sounded even less enthusiastic than usual.

And that was all Sam had planned. The rest of what he wanted to say bunched up and tripped over itself until he didn't know where to start. He wanted to talk it out, shout at him, offer unwavering support.

It startled him when Cas spoke first, taking their talk in a direction he hadn't planned for. “I'm sorry.”

Sam's thoughts cleared, leaving him with nothing.

Cas continued, “I didn't tell you that I raised you from hell. I'm sorry. I know it's been bothering you.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, a wave of rage rising against his instinct to say, _It's okay_. “It's...I just don't understand. Why would you lie about that?”

“You left.” Cas made it sound simple. “When I raised you, it didn't occur to me that I might not have done it correctly. That you might not be whole. You left without a word, and I assumed that was what you wanted: to be done with me and your brother and hunting. Even though I didn't understand, even though it...hurt, it wasn't my place to force you back. If you wanted to leave...” He swallowed. “I respected your decision. I see now I should have pressed the issue.”

Sam stared at him. That wave of anger receded back out to sea, forgiveness rushing in to fill the space in its wake. “Oh.”

Cas didn't meet his eyes, staring off over the salvage yard like a disheveled gargoyle waiting for the sunrise.

“That's... _so_ not what Dean would have done.”

“Yes. It seems he hasn't influenced me as much as everyone accuses.”

“Cas, that's fine though! You treated me with respect. But Dean...He's going to treat me like I'm six years old forever, unless he treats me like I'm an abomination too evil to trust with my own choices. You didn't do that. And that doesn't happen to me that often.”

Cas lowered his head.

“So thank you, Cas. It means a lot.”

Cas' eyes snapped up to give Sam the most appalled and disbelieving look possible.

“Seriously.” Sam leaned towards him in his earnestness, the roof biting into his palm. “You did the right thing. You did. At the time. Or at least you did the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

“Even the best of intentions don't matter.”

“Well, what are you going to do? Go in with bad intentions? Intentions are really all you have.”

“That doesn't excuse my actions. Any of them.”

“No. But neither option was all that great. You could have either treated me like a child, or you could have unknowingly let me walk around like a sociopath. Since you can't see the future, you picked the better option. You didn't know, Cas.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“But you can work on making it right again.”

Cas hunched in on himself, turning back to the yard. Sam had never seen a sight so wretched.

It only got worse. “Dean will never forgive me.”

“Dude, of course he will.” He reached out and shook Cas' shoulder. “Don't be stupid. You're going to make it right, and he'll get over himself, and things will be rough for a while, but then they'll be fine. I mean, look at how many times he's forgiven me.”

“You're family.”

“ _You're_ family! Come on, Cas. He loves you.”

Cas pressed his forehead to his knees, slipping his hands down his shins.

“Cas...” Sam squeezed his shoulder, at a loss for what to do, what to say. How do you comfort an angel? How should he comfort _Cas_? “Just...just promise me you're not going to do something stupid.”

The shoulder under his hand stiffened.

“During the ritual. I know you're beating yourself up right now. _I know_ what it's like. But going out with a bang isn't going to solve your problems.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Sam growled in exasperation, pulling his hand away. “Damnit, Cas. Stop it! Isn't that the lesson we're supposed to learn from all this? Dean warned us from the beginning there'd be a lesson and that's it: we need to handle our shit together. As a team. No more of this shouldering the weight of the world alone crap. No more lying. No more secrets. That's how we got into this mess to begin with, so _just stop_! We need you. _I_ need you. _Dean_ needs you. So don't you dare sacrifice yourself in some misguided attempt to be noble and explode like a super nova just because you're too much of a coward to face your mistakes.”

Cas glared, his eyes lit with such bright fury even in the dark that they would have burned Sam from his body were he not so mad himself.

“You have to forgive yourself!”

“Have you forgiven yourself, Sam?”

Sam faltered.

His rage slammed to a sickening halt, all his momentum thrown from his body like a physical blow.

“I...”

Cas' eyes were too sharp. Too knowing. Too right. Castiel was an angel, and he could slam Sam back in his place with one pointed question and a roll of thunder in his voice.

And yet Cas looked away first, pulling that otherworldly righteousness away like a passing spotlight.

Breathless and ashamed, Sam lifted his eyes to the salvage yard, to the sky paling and paling with every passing moment they came closer to dawn. He swallowed down bile in his throat.

“I'll work on it if you do.”

Cas didn't turn all the way back to him. He didn't agree. His shoulders didn't even slump in defeat or exhaustion that Sam “just didn't understand.”

But the fire had gone out, and Cas tilted his head to the side like he'd consider it.

“We'll work on it,” Sam repeated. More firmly. More for himself. To hammer the intention into place.

As the sky turned the color of charcoal, Sam brushed off his pants and clambered his way back through the window.

 _Forgive_.

 

***

 

Dean startled awake after an hour and a half nap on the couch to the sight of his own face hovering over him.

“Shit!”

Handsome Cas sounded completely unapologetic as he said, “Sorry. It's almost sunrise. We're about ready to begin.”

Dean groaned. His eyes felt like they were made of coals and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. He pressed his face back into the couch cushions to hide.

“You need aspirin and water.” Having informed Dean of this fact, the angel left. Somehow Dean knew the guy wasn't coming back in a minute with pain killers.

Clutching his head, he rolled off the couch, shrugged on his jacket, chugged a glass and a half of water, then swallowed two aspirins he found in the kitchen junk drawer. And he did it in that order.

The chill outside hurt his brain. Or maybe soothed it. Hard to tell.

The garage buzzed with activity and Dean winced against the noise and the light, slumping into place next to Sam. The angels circled the sigil, each in their own orbit, each at their own pace, like planets drifting into alignment. Dean set his jaw, fixed his eyelids at half mast and fought off nausea with the powers of his mighty stomach of steel and can do attitude.

Fake Dean flopped against the wall on his other side, wearing aviator sunglasses like an asshole. He hunched in on himself like he might fall asleep standing up.

“You're both idiots,” Sam said.

“Bitch.”

Fake Dean just muttered something vaguely obscene and lowered his chin to his chest.

Thing Two hurried towards them with a bronze bowl full of gunk in one hand and a notebook in the other, looking like he was about to drop everything. “I can't believe you, Dean. We've been working on this for weeks and you're going to spend the whole thing hungover.”

“Not hungover. Still kinda drunk,” Fake Dean said.

“That's not better!”

“It's not like you need me. I'm here. Showing my support. What else do you need?”

Thing Two didn't have anything better to say than “God, Dean,” and nothing better to do than scowl and stalk off.

“I'm hungover,” Dean admitted.

“Yeah, me too. But lying about it's funnier.”

“I'm not helping you.” They turned to see girl Cas planted in Fake Dean's personal space, gazing up at his aviator glasses as if trying to decide if they looked good or not. (They didn't.) Fake Dean slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in to bury his face in her hair and go back to sleep. She gave him about two full seconds before twisting awkwardly in his arms to face Sam and Dean.

“Thank you for all your help.”

“No problem,” Dean muttered.

“Hey, if it works, we should be the ones thanking you,” Sam said.

For the first time since meeting her, a note of doubt crept into her voice. “I hope it works.”

“Of course it'll work,” Fake Dean said, his words muffled, but still scoffing and laced with bravado.

“It'll work,” Dean agreed, while next to him Sam nodded.

She looked at them a moment, long enough to remind him of Cas and how ticked off he was. Then she nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

“Same here,” Sam said, reaching out to shake her hand, which was awkward not only because girl Cas was awkward but because Fake Dean was attached to her like a barnacle.

“Okay!” Thing Two clapped his hands together, having deposited his bowl of gunk in the center of the sigil and without a notebook for the first time in hours. “It's time!”

Girl Cas pried herself loose and offered one last look over her shoulder.

Stabby Sam squeezed C.C.'s wrist for good luck, and bounced up to join them, looking way too wound up, like Sam always got when he was twitchy and anxious and strung out on coffee. C.C. gave them a long look that Dean couldn't interpret while Stabby Sam nudged Sam and smiled a kind of manic grin. “So it was nice meeting you.” He didn't say it was nice to meet Dean, but then again it probably wasn't that nice. More like traumatic.

Vampire Cas handed over the fat black and gray tie. “Thank you.” He was way too close. “For all your help.”

“Don't mention it,” Sam said.

“And I'm sorry.” This was addressed to Dean, who shrugged.

“It's fine.”

And you know you're hungover when you can't convince a walking blood smoothie that you're okay.

Cassie came by to shake the Sams' hands and squeeze Fake Dean's arm. (He looked less hungover after she did.) Then she popped onto her toes to press an awkward, dry kiss to Dean's cheek, leaving him blinking and definitely not raising a blush. “Forgive,” she ordered, her voice low and weirdly at odds with the little, girlish peck she'd left on his face.

The rest of the Castiels were already in place around the sigil. Cas Singer quirked a smile and nodded at them while Handsome Cas waved goodbye like a dork.

Cas just watched them, like a beaten dog fearing its next kick. Dean met his eyes, held them, then nodded once. Not forgiveness and not acceptance, but not condemnation. Not right now.

Sam shot the guy a thumbs up.

“Guys! Now! Come on!” Thing Two nudged Cassie towards the sigil as he retreated, earning himself a dirty look that he failed to notice. He found a place on the other side of Fake Dean, checking his watch and bouncing on the balls of his feet as the angels took position.

The Castiels each stood at a point on the seven pointed star chalked into the floor. Their placement apparently mattered, but Dean didn't know or care how. From inside the garage, they couldn't see the sun rise, but the angels could feel it, the air tensing in the moment. They began the spell in unison, blending into a single voice, a single song.

Fake Dean pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

The chalk marks lit, glowing so softly at first, but building, building, drifting from white to a blue the color of Cas' eyes, of all their eyes as they too began to glow, a subtle flash like when Cas smiled, a gentle pulsing in time with their breathing—out of sync with each other, off just enough.

The goop in the center smoldered, filling the space with a cloying, sweet smell. Their voices rose, ringing like bells and birds and laughter. Their eyes burned brighter as their pulses aligned, matching the rhythm of their song, binding them together until they breathed as one. The center bowl flamed higher and higher, blue fingers of flame that pulsed and danced. The floor glowed, brighter, brighter, a whine building in the air, heat building with the rising of the sun, with the tangible build of power.

Their voices rose into static, still with a pulse, still with a heartbeat, but now a song without words, just joy and power and joy and heartache.

It overwhelmed the pain in Dean's head, just the song, the song, calling him, asking him to join them, pulling at his sleeves. It pulled at the edges of the garage, at the air in the room, at the concrete and the oil spills, drawing them in. It tugged at the wards on the ceiling and hugged at Dean's heart. He had to look away, cover his eyes before it was too much, before it pulled him in and consumed him, before he was lost to heat and power and brilliance.

Then silence. Stillness. The ringing of bells vanishing—No. Bound and contained in each of the angels before them.

The sun had risen.

And a new intensity rippled through the air, this one more earthly, one of intention and the need to act quickly.

Then they were moving. Cas Singer vanished and the angels' eyes flashed. Vampire Cas. Cassie. Flash flash. Stabby Sam grimaced one anticipatory smile, braced for C.C.'s fingers against his forehead, and they both disappeared. Flash. Handsome Cas vanished and Cas' eyes pulsed, determined, intent, and close, close, close—

Cas blinked and they flew. He hadn't even reached out to pull them along. Dean had never realized how much he relied on the stabilizing touch—a grip on his arm, a fingertip between his eyebrows—until he was in the void between worlds without it.

They landed again by the sunflower field. No, a different sunflower field, this one in their own universe. Crowley stood to the side, teleported along with them despite the distance. His eyes bulged in surprise, but otherwise he didn't move, his handcuffed wrists hanging in front of him.

The nausea, the ripping of Dean's lungs and the flaying of his veins did not appear. He pressed a hand against his chest and looked up at Castiel, who stood tall and strong.

_Twenty times as strong._

His eyes pulsed again, brighter than before.

“Raphael will come.” There were levels to his voice, layers and reverberations like the ringing when the spell was cast.

Dean marveled. Dean feared. His fingers bit into his shirt over his heart.

Raphael appeared far quicker than he expected. As if she were summoned. As if she felt Castiel reappear in this universe the very moment his feet touched the ground, like a new star, like a black hole. Raphael's eyes were wide as she took in Castiel, and—She was afraid. It was so strange to see her afraid. The two angels at her sides took terrified steps backwards.

“Castiel? How? What is this?”

Castiel reached out a hand, fingers tensed and curled, clawing the air, his face blank except for the flash of his eyes. And Raphael jerked, her shoulders rearing back as her chest thrust forward, her spine arching, eyes widening. The pulses of his eyes came faster now, rhythmic, flaring and flaring and fading and flaring.

Cas nodded. “Goodbye, Raphael.”

That was all. She heaved half a cough. Her chest so constricted she couldn't voice her surprise.

Cas squeezed his hand and _pulled_.

And grace ripped from every pore in her body. A boom. An inhuman scream. Grace tearing and sizzling and so hot it burned, it burned, it burned so bright. An angry swirl through the air, grasping and curling back towards its body, desperate and terrified, fizzling at the edges and heaving in the middle, jerking left, right, left, before smashing to the ground in an explosion of white and a shockwave that shook the ground and plowed through the air.

Her eyes bulged in shock and pain, her lips parted, her body suspended, lifted onto her toes, poised for a breath held and held and held.

Then Cas' eyes flashed and she slipped to the ground, crumpling in silence except for the sigh of air as her wings burned across the grass.

The other two angels had frozen in horror. Cas swiveled towards them, his eyes flashing once more, and they fled.

Dean gaped.

The air was thick with the smell of burnt grace and thrumming power. Castiel stood, terrifying and beautiful, with confident shoulders and chin high and proud, his face passive but his eyes dancing, a storm surging, burning, singing just under his skin, setting the air ringing.

Dean breathed a disbelieving, “Cas...”

Something shuffled, and Dean pulled himself from the sight to see Crowley, his face paled in horror. He had stumbled back a step, eyes fixed on the scorched wings.

And he had caught Castiel's attention.

He seemed to realize this the exact same moment as Dean. He backed up in earnest as Castiel stalked forward, his eyes full-out glowing. Sam and Dean pulled towards him, needing to grab him, stop him, do something.

“Cas!”

“Cas, no. You have to save your grace.”

Crowley held up a manacled hand and twitched an attempt at a laugh. “Now...let's not be hasty.”

“Man, don't so it.”

“Cas, stop. He's not worth it.”

“It's fine, love. We'll just part ways amicably.”

“Cas!”

But Castiel's hand was out again, fingers curled slightly like he could cradle Crowley's beating, blackened heart in his palm.

Crowley stiffened and twitched, an orange burst of lightning dancing under his skin, flickering across his cheekbone, his eye socket. Another flash lit the hinge of his jaw, the outline of his teeth. Another lighting the veins in his neck. The bones in his hand. Sweeping from his hairline. Around the hollow of his nose. Another and another. Faster and faster until he fell to his knees with a dry, choking gurgle.

Cas's eyes burned, and a scream built, low and quiet and eerie, growing, growing, shaking and cracking. Another flash and it ramped into a piercing wail, the death throws of a hurricane. The lightning ripped faster and faster, bursting and popping.

Cas flicked his fingers like flicking away water.

And POOF. Like dropping a bag of flour. Crowley exploded in a cloud of smoke.

Black. Eerily still. Hanging in the air with the ancient smell of sulfur.

Usually where the smoke would churn, roll on itself like a murder of crows, this smoke was thin and disconnected, every particle ripped from its neighbors and drifting like flakes of ash to the ground, where they didn't even burn against the grass. The cloud thinned gently, and—No. Crowley hadn't exploded. His body was still there, revealed slowly, surrounded by the remains of smoke and ash.

Cas dropped his arm and Crowley dropped with it, barely disrupting the stillness of the cloud, but falling out of it enough to show the shocked parting of his lips and the burned remains of his eyes.

Wind whipped against Dean's face, cutting and biting and pushing. His lungs compressed, and his eyes squinted. The color drained from the field under the light, the light, the light. He shielded himself with his forearm, cringing against the pressure in his ears.

And Castiel rose into the air, his arms spreading, unfurling outward, his eyes blue light and sightless.

“Cas!” Dean pushed forward, pressing through the wind and the song and the force that pushed him back. He grabbed for Cas' arm, pulling him, hauling him down until he could get his hand on Cas' shoulder. He pulled until Cas' feet touched the ground and then held him there. The light burned so badly that even with his eyes squeezed shut, he could still almost see Cas through his eyelids. The angry wind slashed at his clothes, roaring, pushing him away, trying to lift the angel back into the air, whipping away his words so he had to shout just to hear himself.

“Cas! It's over. Let it go.”

His fingers dug into Cas' shoulder, the light and the wind and the pressure a shrieking wail in his mind, like Cas' true voice folded on itself a thousand times. Dean would shatter like a plane of glass.

“You hear me?”

He changed his grip, grabbing the back of Cas' neck, pressing skin to skin.

And Dean was on fire. It burned through his hand, his arm, his eyes and throat, through his veins, and this must be what it was to see Cas' true form, because he could feel Cas. Not just the back of his neck against the sweaty palm of Dean's hand, but the power surging and rolling inside him. Cas struggled to wrestle control from it, to direct it, to hold on for dear life. A nuclear reactor raging in the cage of his body. It burned, it burned, it burned.

Spinning through the torrent was the panic, tinged and sharp. Prayers, cried and screamed, unfocused and without form, and if Dean could just focus, grab just one as it whipped by...He could almost hear Cas' voice. Almost. Almost. _Please, hold on. Please please please. I have to. God, God help me. Dean, please, I can't._

And it wasn't just Cas. It was all the Castiels, entwined and rolling, surging and burning. All with different voices, praying and trying and fighting to hold on.

And they needed him.

Dean grit his teeth. “Okay, Cas,” he thought—he screamed—he grit the words through clenched teeth, his body so far away he could barely feel it, lost in the light, the whine of Cas' power so loud it drowned out his words. “You hold on. You can do it.”

He latched onto the prayer, that little bit of Cas—his Cas—Cas' soul in a swell of _other_. He snagged it and rode it, clinging and flying.

Just outside his vision, he could sense the others. Feel them. Hear them. He just knew. He knew Fake Dean was screaming at Sunshine, holding her just as tight as Dean held Cas. _You can do it, you can do it._ He knew a Dean had grabbed Cas Singer, his panic leaking through the connection. _Stay with me, Cas. Stay with me._

Vampire Cas tensed, focused the power they'd built, and pushed. Everyone screamed as the power ramped to the next level, the scream echoing, building, each new voice amplifying the others, as power forced through his Dean's veins, burning and burning, smelling of burnt tar and blood and blood and blood.

An explosion near Cassie. A Dean was screaming. Blood splattered. Cas was glowing, glowing, _glowing_ , and Dean held tight like he could hold him together.

Then C.C. _pulled_. She wrapped herself in the swell and dove, the power building to blackout, and Dean clung to Cas as he faded in the storm, overwhelmed by grace. _I got you, I got you. Stay with me._ C.C. flew, wild and reckless, plunging into heat and smoke and blood and burning.

She dove into hell, pulling them all with her, their power fueling her mad decent, her desperate search. Faster. _Faster_. Even Dean pushed her on. _Go go go go._

_Hold on, Cas. Just a bit more._

Someone ripped from the spell, sending it toppling, grace spilling wild and wheeling, throwing off another Castiel, then another. Something tore. Sam was shouting.

_Dean, please, Dean. We have to hold on._

It echoed, the prayer tripping over itself, pleaded from every Castiel. The fear, the need, the love, the heartbreak and confusion and devotion.

Dean squeezed—his eyes closed, his fingers tight, his mind wrapped so tight around Cas it ached. _I got you._

C.C. grabbed Dean's arm in hell.

“We're done! Let go! Get out!”

But Cas had no form now. Only light. He was pulling away, dissolving into the formless current of Castiel, and it was all Dean could do to keep him, to squeeze his eyes closed and cling to what Cas had been, to remember with every fiber of his being. He slung his arm around what was once Cas' shoulder, pinning him down under the crook of his elbow. He pressed his forehead against what was once Cas', trying to fold over him in every way that could to keep him there. The trench coat wrinkled in his fist.

“Now, Cas! Drop it!”

Dean was burning. He was dying. And with his last trace of strength he growled, more a mental command to all angels, more a prayer in desperation than a working of his torn vocal chords.

“Listen up. All you sons of bitches go back where you came from. Get out of my Cas. Get the fuck out of my Castiel.

“And Cas— _my_ Cas. The bastard who thinks he has to do everything alone. The one with the dry jokes and the terrible tie and the smug look when he's right. You're stubborn and exasperated and impatient and forgiving. Always forgiving. You belong here. We need you. So you get your ass back right now, or so help me, I swear to God—“

He was exploding. The world was exploding. This was how the universe ended.

“ _Ca_ _aaaaa_ _s_!”

Silence hit like a bomb. Like the deep _whoomp_ of angel wings. Like everything had fallen, dead and heavy to the ground.

Cas collapsed into Dean's arms, toppling them both to the ground—the ground with color and texture and no longer a wash of painful white and burning grace.

“Dean! Oh my God!” Sam skidded to the ground beside them, grabbing at Dean's coat.

Dean could not let go of Cas, who looked lifeless after teaming with so much soul, with so much fear and strength and passion.

Dean gripped him tight and waited.

And waited.

Somewhere there was wind—a calm, haphazard wind. Somewhere the sun shone in a now blue sky.

And in his arms, Cas opened his eyes, and they were blue.

Dean's exhale was a collapse, his forehead falling to Cas' hair, every muscle in his body melting. He squeezed the back of Cas' neck. His voice croaked when he tried to use it.

“Shit. It's good to have you back.”

Cas shifted, his shoulders slumping like he'd just dropped the weight of the world. A tired fist locked in the front of Dean's shirt. His voice was even more wrecked and shredded than usual.

“Dean. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“No, I'll make it up to you.”

“You're goddamn right, you will. After I've slept for three days, you own me a sea monster fight and a trip to that fancy bakery.”

Sam barked a laugh, wild and aborted, and Dean found himself grinning. He was laughing and Cas was laughing and Sam slumped against the both of them, turning their collapse into a full out pile.

Cas' chest shook, and Dean's eyes watered, and Sam gasped for breath, their fingers digging into each other's sleeves like they would never let go. The letter B sat scrawled and fading on the back of Dean's hand.


End file.
